


21st Century Cure

by airafleeza



Series: When the infection ends, we begin [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Repo! the Genetic Opera AU, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Self-Sacrificing Steve Rogers, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: A face didn’t really mean anything, especially in the day and age of plastic surgery as a fashion statement. He had come to think of bones, their structure, as a land—a foundation—that people built upon. He knew that there were at least seven other people in this world at any one point that could share a face. It’s how biology worked—there were only so many combinations of features the world can hope to generate. It was nature, but Steve was disturbed to his bones—deep into his sickly marrow, his core—because it was unnatural to see someone with a face that looked like Bucky’s. It was worse how Steve’s pulse quickened, but not out of horror. It was wrong how Steve felt like he’d won the lottery before he remembered: it could never be Bucky.Or, the Repo! Genetic Opera AU no one ever asked for where the future still isn't kind to Steve Rogers.





	1. City built on top of the dead

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly two years ago, I came up with the idea for this fic. I knew it would be a long labor of love. Over a year ago, I finished writing it for NanoWriMo. For this year's NanoWriMo, I used the month to force myself to edit and add onto the story.
> 
>  _Repo! the Genetic Opera_ is my problematic fave. The visuals were appealing to little goth me the first time I saw it, and I adore the songs as well as Bousman and Zdunick's world building. Don't get me wrong— this movie is cheesy and nasty in the best of ways and a wee offensive (which is not so great), but I wanted to take the parts of it I loved and apply them to a story about my two favorite boys. 
> 
> With _Repo!_ , you either love it or hate it. I happen to love it. You don't need to see the movie to enjoy this fic. 
> 
> This story is more plot and action-driven than what I'm usually comfortable writing. I felt out of my safe zone most times, but over all, I'm excited to begin posting this. Ideally, updates will happen at least once every other week. The entire fic has been written, and therefore will not be an abandoned project. Editing takes me awhile, unfortunately.
> 
> Much gratitude to [Jannet](http://what-a-bird-does.tumblr.com/) for riding my ass and watching this movie probably half a dozen times and letting me bounce ideas off of. Also, to [Kami](http://subspacerogers.tumblr.com/) for pushing me to post this (which is something I desperately needed) and always reminding me maybe I know what I'm doing. And finally, [Ari](http://stripperbucky.tumblr.com/)! Ari, you're a beam of light in my life. Thank you for editing and for your kind words. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this and stick around. A sequel is already in the works.

“Everything clear on your end?” Steve whispered into the comms, glancing behind the freight. He readjusted his grip on the crowbar in his right hand. This used to be a dock before the city went into quarantine, years ago. The static cracked in his ears, putting an end to his nostalgia. He winced at Natasha’s voice.

“Stop worrying.” He could hear the confidence over their private channel and his expression softened. “This is pretty standard.”

“—says the most experienced player here,” Steve said, moving forward and readjusting his air filter mask. His eyes swept the grounds. According to some intelligence, the waterfront of Red Hook had become a dumping ground for the dead before they were processed, organs harvested and Serum extracted. Appearing to have been abandoned, Steve had fought Natasha about the necessity of using the filtering mask in the first place— saying they were far enough away from downtown and the mass bulk of their city’s population and the air ought to be less contaminated. Still, Natasha refused to take any chances with Steve— pointedly glancing at his pill bottles, keeping his uphill climb to recovery at the forefront of her mind.

He scowled, still. Masks to clean the air weren’t expensive nor hard to find unless you failed to have identification cards, which most of their people didn’t— the cost of trying to remain as much off the grid as possible in a future built on biotechnology. Steve would have preferred someone else use it, or at least him not have to take it at all. Their team was in no way an army— just a band of rebels, dust caught up in the cogs of society’s machine with Hydra the force behind it all. Steve had always been uncomfortable being treated different from anyone else— especially under these circumstances

“Don’t sell yourself short, Steve,” Natasha teased. “You’re pretty good at pep talks. All an organization needs is an inspiring leader and they’ll fight better than the best.” Her voice lowered. “And I’ve got to say, you’re pretty inspiring.”

The tips of his ears warmed up. Keeping the embarrassed waver out of his voice, Steve told her to focus.

“Besides,” he added, on a final note, “I’m no leader.”

Steve crept, checking in with Sam on another secured line— hating the muffle to his voice the mask created. Their comm devices were usable at best, Steve not for the life of him able to figure out how Barton and Natasha had cooked them up when buying such a thing in the city would have for sure set off red flags for illegal activity.

The entire operation would have been better suited for the chaos that was ten years ago when everyone was too busy scrambling for help. No one would have paid attention to people like Steve, Sam or the rest of those who were willing to fight for a better world. Since Cynthia Smidt had taken over her father’s role in Hydra after his death, she’d been able to claim responsibility for making the city a better one by holding a gun to everyone’s head in the name of protection. Everyone had to pretend things were okay with a smile on their faces. Any small act that could make her a liar was dealt with and never heard of again. Steve couldn’t stomach it. As soon as he could, he wanted to put a stop to them. He just hadn’t figured out how to get under their skin yet.

His hand brushed against the wooden crates, wondering who was inside them; who had been lost.

The plan was this: steal what they could and burn the rest. Their intel suggested the bodies were being stored amongst the other boxes of freight, and it was only a matter of finding which ones. And if they happened to find some medical supplies or goods that were worth something to Serum-dealers on the black market, Natasha was always able to find someone to take it in exchange for something else their people needed. They could take painkillers and processed organs to Dr. Banner to help those who couldn’t afford their surgeries. Everyone else— the raw material, he shuddered, remembering the terminology used in some of their stolen Hydra files— they would make sure were cremated.

The burning— that’s what Steve felt the best about. It was cleansing, somehow, like sending those bodies to rest. A proper burial and leftover sense of a job well done. It only seemed right. That’s how he’d grown up expecting the dead to be dealt with and now it was a luxury. Where once Natasha had asked him if he believed in a higher power, he’d answered uncertainly, not sure how he could be anymore. But the burial wasn’t about sending spirits to another place— it was about saying goodbye.

“Natasha,” he refocused, the crowbar heavy in his palm. “Ready when you are.”

Steve waited, the line gone quiet for a few moments until— “Steve.” Natasha was winded. “I may have— miscalculated.”

Steve’s stomach twisted as he kept low, trying to look for a physical sign of distress. It was still quiet as Steve changed channels to speak to Sam and Barton when there was a crash in the distance. Barton urged everyone in their earpieces to get to the rendezvous point.

“What’s happening?” Steve said, planting himself where he stood. Wondering what Barton knew that Natasha wasn’t telling him. He listened to see if he could hear Sam or Natasha closeby.

Barton was yelling so loud his earpiece couldn’t handle it— Steve only picking up a sickening screech. There was too much noise in his head, like he’d been hit across his ears. Barton could have been right next to him for all he knew, vaguely aware of what was said when Steve saw a man in a long black physician’s coat jump over one of the crates, causing the wood to spider-web and splinter under his weight.

No one ever knew their real name, only what the rumors claimed. The Hydra soldiers, their repo men. The stories underground ranged from some sort of scientifically-concocted inhumans, but Steve always assumed they were originally doctors gone morally corrupt. It seemed the most realistic. But anyway it was spun, they were the boogeyman people saw when they signed their lives away to Hydra’s medical services and failed to read the fine print about what happened if they failed to keep up with their payments for services rendered.

The man wielded the knives from his belt as if they were an extension of his own hand. From this distance, Steve was able to tell he was comfortable in close combat, the figure closing in on Natasha and slashing near her stomach with intent before flipping his knife and trying to cut across at a different angle. She was calm and collected as far as Steve saw, going as far as to yelling over her shoulder at him to go away, to not interfere.

Natasha should have known him better than that.

Steve jumped the man from behind, managing a good hit between the attacker’s shoulder blades before trying to throw the repo man off. Arms in a chokehold around the man’s neck, Steve tried to make a grab for the man’s arms and force them back. Natasha had taught him what she was willing to when it came to a fight, and Bucky had taught Steve everything else he knew on the days where his body didn’t ache too terribly. He relived that weakness as the man calculated what maneuvers to make, slamming Steve against the closest crate. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, wood fragments digging into his back. Steve heard the clatter of the crowbar falling from his grasp and land on the ground. Natasha got to their attacker before he could further advance on Steve, tasing the man in black, and that was when Steve made a dead-on run towards him, using the momentum with the swing of his fist to make the impact.

He didn’t want to kill, even if it was Hydra. Just hurt the man enough to render him unconscious, but even then— with Steve’s healthier body and thick muscles— all Steve managed to do was knock off the leather surgical mask when he punched him in the jaw. He swore he heard a gasp from Hydra’s soldier, but when the repo man looked at Steve, skin sickly and mix-matched eyes empty, there is no expression there. More than likely it was just the hiss of disrupted suction from the mask falling off.

A face didn’t really mean anything, especially in the day and age of plastic surgery as a fashion statement. He had come to think of bones, their structure, as a land— a foundation— that people built upon. He knew that there were at least seven other people in this world at any one point that could share a face. It’s how biology worked— there were only so many combinations of features the world can hope to generate. It was nature, but Steve was disturbed to his bones— deep into his sickly marrow, his core— because it was unnatural to see someone with a face that looked like Bucky’s.

It was worse how Steve’s pulse quickened, but not out of horror. It was wrong how Steve felt like he’d won the lottery before he remembered: it could never be Bucky.

Completely stunned, it must have been Natasha who jammed her taser into the man’s side to disable him again, pushing him away from the two of them. Everyone else had gotten away, Barton’s voice reporting the update in his ear, and it was time for them to do the same. Natasha’s hand was small, barely able to circle around his wrist as she yelled at Barton to come to them, dragging Steve— who was too heavy and too old to be looked after anymore, he told himself. A cargo truck— their truck— came to a halt, Natasha pushing Steve ahead and holding onto the back door, eyes watchful ( _like I should have been_ , Steve thought) as they sped away.

“Status?” she pressed a hand to her ear, taking her earpiece out. Despite rapidly checking in with Barton and Sam, Natasha managed to spare some glances in Steve’s direction. Steve could only hear the crackle over the roar of blood thudding away in his skull.Whatever Barton told her, it must have been good. She took her time securing the back door to the truck.

“Everyone—?” Steve asked, ripping the air filter from his face. She nodded once and made her way to the front. Probably to tell Barton to move over, most likely to discuss what had happened. For as long as they’d been working together, the three of them, Steve was still aware of the wide expanse of conversations he wasn’t invited to. Trying not to waste time on that, only then did Steve trust himself to scan the hold. Sam was there with him, not speaking but his stare exposed his concern. Steve’s shoulders sagged in exhaustion and relief.

With Natasha at the wheel, Steve sunk into his seat, repeating in his head that he wasn’t going to have an asthma attack or panic attack, no, he was better, Natasha made sure he’d get better—

Steve’s body held the tension in his shoulders, the only thing keeping him together. If he let go of this, he’d fall apart. It wasn’t as if he never thought of Bucky, but this was unsettling at best. At worst this was a nightmare his brain hadn’t cooked up to torture himself with. Tonight cemented the belief he would never be free to move on.

That’s when Sam leaned into his peripherals, peering at him with a carefully blank expression. Steve appreciated his warmth— wanted to see it then. Sam’d welcomed Steve into his life like an old friend, not a new one. Steve, cautious to hell, was slow to make attachments in the “cured” portion of his life. It was hard to resist liking Sam, though, when their first conversation was Sam calling bullshit on “these goddamn fools and their ‘undead’ aesthetic— as if there’s anything cool about it”. It made Steve laugh despite the harsh reality. It was hard to get a tan when it was safer to be inside— when the sun seemed always hazy.

Steve remembered the sun, he remembered his mother’s face basking in it. There once was cooling grass beneath his feet, and yeah, he was a little sick back then but it was almost… normal, considering the nightmare that was going to become his life. The future left behind the sun. The future didn’t care about the grass patch outside his apartment and at-ease blanket forts from his childhood. The future was cold and took away everyone he ever loved, in the end.

(But he had sunlight for 12 years, and Bucky only for another ten after that. He’s 27 now and has learned which one is harder to live without.)

“Alright, big guy?” Sam asked, leaning on his elbows. But Steve didn’t come back to him for another minute, until the cargo truck hit a bump and their knees collided, and— jeez— Steve was never going to get used to being this big hulking guy he became after Hydra stopped poisoning him. Never. Briefly he hoped he would quit growing, but the pains in his legs warned him he probably had a little bit more to go as his hormones worked on balancing out, flushing out all of the toxins and substances from his system. He had a hard time accepting he was nearing six feet. It seemed an impossible feat just a few years ago.

Steve closed his eyes, rubbing his face. His eyelids were greasy, skin grimy overall, and looking around, he realized he’s really not the only one who needs a shower.

Despite this, Steve replied with, “I’m fine,” and hoped that to be the end of that. They’d only known each other for a short amount of time, but it was long enough that they both knew Steve was lying. Sam smiled and shook his head, his teeth surprisingly white and blockish. Almost perfect, except for the little gap in the middle that Steve always found charming. He felt a little bit of pride because _see, proof right there, sometimes nature gets something right_ and it made Steve oddly hopeful. It was nice.

As Sam’s expression changed with a sigh and scratch of his head, Steve forced himself to look away. If Sam said anything else, it was drowned out by groans of the truck’s suspension system doing its best through the potholes leading them underground. Steve wanted to make himself small again, hunching his back but he knew how pointless it was. Nothing changed. He was here and stuck like this. He knew it was for the best.

“You sure, _Cap_?” There’s a playful emphasis on the word that made Steve’s ears turn pink.

Luckily, before he could respond, Steve was interrupted by a sudden dip that caused them to jolt in their seats, the truck squeaking slightly, followed by a quick turn. It’s black in the underground tunnel, save for the few scattered lights. The lights pass over them from the front window shield, Sam’s face made visible in flashes before fading into the darkness as the truck continued on. It’s enough that Steve saw the steadfast concern that he opted to ignore. It was very simple to imagine that like the lights, the worry was gone was soon as it came.

Eventually, minutes dragged on in anticipation of arriving at their base, the cargo truck slowed and stopped with a lurch. Natasha hadn’t quite managed driving stick with a fluency Steve was confident she would one day possess. It was obvious that day hadn’t come yet. Barton murmured something about stubborn self-taught drivers.

Once the truck completely stilled and the engine died, Steve expected everyone to file out in a flurry, eager to get back home to their friends or families or whatever’s left and shake off a mission gone wrong, especially in this instance to forget the memory of the boogeyman. Leave behind the haunted feelings of running into a ghost. Steve wished it was only so easy.

And Sam must have sensed that because he lingered, just waited and stood there in the open cargo hold of the truck. It was an opportunity to ask Sam to stay and talk. For once, Sam didn’t push— giving Steve the lead. The option to take something. Sam eventually went out the back, pressing a heavy hand to Steve’s shoulder as he exited. His boots scuffled on the way out, followed by the clack of Natasha’s.

Wordlessly, she took a seat next to him and Steve released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. And if he deflated a little, it was okay because Natasha wouldn’t rat him out, wouldn’t tell anyone about this side of him. Not even Barton.

(Just like how he would never tell anyone about the mercy Natasha possessed— their own little secret.)

“We’ll get another shot, Steve,” she reassured him. Judging by the silence after, both knew that wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

He felt a little stupid for freezing up when he first saw Hydra’s soldier, wondered what it looked like to her, if she figured him to be afraid. He was, Steve was willing to admit to himself, but not for the reasons she might think. And then there was nothing else to disguise his laugh, a bitter sounding thing. Natasha’s artfully composed face shifted into something between confused and interested.

“I forget,” he finally spoke, wiping his eyes in good humor. “You didn’t really know him.”

Because Natasha had intel on everyone from her days above ground as a Serum-dealer, with eyes and ears everywhere on the streets. That was how she found Steve, hell, practically saved him when he wasn’t sure where else he could go. It’d been five years. It didn’t take her long to figure out who Steve was talking about at all.

The stiffness of her features dropped, her husky voice the gentlest Steve had heard it go. There’s still a layer of hard, uncompromising mother-like logic to it. “You know it wasn’t him. He’s—”

“I know,” Steve smiled sadly. He didn’t need Natasha to remind him that Bucky was dead.


	2. A new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter two! Major thanks to [Ari](http://stripperbucky.tumblr.com/) for editing!
> 
> P.S. I personally have nothing against New Jersey. It seems like a lovely place and I wouldn't mind living there!

The first time Steve saw Natasha, he hadn’t considered he might be harboring a fugitive. It wasn’t the first thing he’d done that day that technically he wasn’t supposed to. Up until that point it’d been a good day by Steve’s standards. He was breathing on his own, his body not wracked with consistent aches. Sketchbook in his lap, he’d made his way outdoors— blatantly ignoring the gas mask on the wall infused with oxygen, specially made for someone like Steve whose list of conditions were complicated and seemingly endless. Once outdoors, he’d discovered there was nothing worth drawing. He was a Brooklyn boy put out in the far reaches of New Jersey, the outline of skyscrapers far off into the distance. It was as far as Bucky could get them from the noise, claiming, “it’s a goddamn train wreck out there, Stevie”.

They had no neighbors, no one who lived close to them anymore. When Steve was in the city with his mom there had been Bucky and Peggy within walking distance of his apartment building, but Steve hadn’t spoken to Peggy in years. She’d moved away almost overnight, her parents wanting the best for their family. He was isolated, stuck here with Bucky— cringing as he caught himself thinking that way. Bucky was trying, and Steve hated that Bucky had to try so hard. As a result of all of Bucky’s work and studies in Manhattan and the hours it took commuting every day, Steve was alone more often than not; until Nat found him.

She’d been leaning against one of the porch’s columns, for how long Steve wasn’t sure— lost in the blank page in front of him. Her quiet “you live here?” had Steve jolting from his hunched position. He blinked at her once, twice, before adjusting his glasses.

“What if I did?” he asked, hackles raised. He hadn’t even heard her sneak up, even with his hearing aid in. As far as he knew, there weren’t any new people in this sector.

She pushed herself off the wooden column, practically sauntering towards Steve in a way that was effortless— Steve’s skin tingling. He hadn’t been around a girl, or anyone who wasn’t a doctor beside Bucky, in years. He remembered thinking she was beautiful— like a cat. Sleek and powerful, her hair the most lively thing in this scenery. It swished around her face, length straight and to her shoulders. Eventually Steve would be told her hair was red, a sight he wished he could see for himself. For him, it was only brown. In contrast, Steve’s own hair seemed to just flop down, irritating his eyes and obstructing his sight. He tried pushing it away, the texture like hay to him. He wondered what he looked like to her, suddenly very conscious of how he must look.

“Then I’d ask you if I can come inside.” Her smile was predatory, Steve loving it in an instant. He wanted to draw its sharp angles. He became aware of the pencil in his hand, the paper touching the graphite’s tip. She could be his new muse if he just memorized her face right. Something to keep him occupied for weeks. It was pathetic, drawing Bucky again and again over the years. He’d already mastered the kind crinkle to his eye, the thumbprint cleft of his chin.

“Can I?”

Steve blinked, recalling he was in the middle of a conversation when he noticed her hands positioned carefully behind her back.

“You hiding from something?” Steve asked, eyes clearly focused on her arms so there would be no mistaking his meaning. Natasha shrugged.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” she offered. Steve shook his head, hearing something like a twig snap in the distance. It caught Natasha’s attention. She sounded almost desperate, playful banter tossed aside, as her expression hardened. “How about: ‘the less you know, the better?’”

Sensing her urgency, Steve pushed himself up, his legs having fallen asleep and protesting any movement. He touched the front door, opening it wide for her.

“Y’know, you could’ve started with your name, at least,” he said, casual. His heart was racing, more excited than he’d felt in ages. Her eyes went cold, scanning over Steve like she was checking for weak points. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take her, not even on a good day. He suppressed a shiver, and hoped his instincts weren’t failing him now. He’d always had good intuition when it came to people, though trusting them was another thing entirely.

She stepped through the threshold, ignoring him.

“I’ve been coming by this place for months and I’ve never seen anyone step outside.” She whistled, taking in the sight of the room. “You live here by yourself?”

The house was just as bleak as it appeared outside, even if Steve and Bucky had done their best to cheer the place up. It was too large for them, considering both had grown up in small apartments— especially Bucky’s place, which was overcrowded with his three sisters and his folks. In this two-story house with a large basement Bucky had converted into a study, they didn’t know how to fill the space. Steve tried to, with pencil-sketched attempts to recreate old photos they’d lost. Other than that, it was plastic-sheeted furniture and Bucky’s textbooks on the main floor. Steve tried to imagine what their home was telling her about the lives they led.

“No,” he cleared his throat before answering her. “I don’t.”

Natasha never bothered to look back as she moved forward, carefully angling herself so Steve could never quite manage to catch a glimpse of what she was holding. Her feet kicked out as she walked, Steve mesmerized as she looked at their wide expanse of walls, empty except for Steve’s drawings. The intense scrutiny had him debating tearing everything down.

“Parents?” She paused to stand in front of the portrait he’d done of Bucky for his last birthday. _Figured nothing’d make you happier than your own mug_ , Steve had told him. He tried so hard to capture his features, handsome as they were. Bucky pinned it to the wall, almost immediately. _So everyone can see it_ , was his reasoning. When Steve mentioned he was the only here and no one came by, Bucky’s face fell but he never bothered to take it down.

“Roommate?” Natasha jerked her chin in the direction of Bucky’s smiling face.

He hesitated before correcting her. “Friend.” Natasha’s lips curled with a soft “oh,” and he hated that trapped feeling like Natasha had him pinned. What did all of this look like to her? What did Steve look like in Natasha’s eyes that first meeting? Natasha never shared these opinions.

“Will he mind if I’m here?” She moved in his direction. _Yes,_ Steve knew. He would and if Bucky ever found out, Steve wouldn’t hear the end of it.

“Depends,” he lied. “He works for the government, you know.”

Natasha’s expression darkened at this, if only for a flash. Steve barely caught it before she smoothed out her disgust into something more palatable. Obviously she was involved in something. Illegal, definitely. While part of him knew this interaction could get him and Bucky both in trouble— part of him didn’t mind. It was the half of him that resented his sickness and how it kept Bucky at a distance. It was the part of him that hated how being sick made Bucky continue to push himself through school to keep learning how to make Steve better.

She tried to occupy herself a bit longer— make herself seem distracted as she touched the wall. Steve thought he saw a glint of metal, like a thick syringe of sorts. He followed her, keeping an expanse of distance between them. Whatever she was waiting for must have come in a series of taps Steve heard against the glass— Natasha’s eyes darting in the direction of the curtain-covered window.

“You drive, kid?” She had a manic excitement about her, as though someone had hit a switch— the solemn moment gone. Steve hesitated as she stepped closer. She could be dangerous. Whether or not she was a threat to him, he wasn’t sure at that point.

He shook his head. “Never got a chance to learn.”

Her gaze went past him, Steve transparent. He always wondered if that was the moment she figured out something was wrong with Steve. Maybe she finally spotted all the breathing apparatuses, finally noticed that unmistakable hospital smell. Then, she looked at him, dismissive. There was nothing cold about the look, and there was no pity. For the first time in a long time, Steve was a normal person to someone else.

“Everyone's sick,” she stated, before tossing out another question. Steve wondered if she really cared. “What’s wrong with you?”

Steve swallowed, caught off guard. “Uhh, heart, lungs— don’t know. We’re still—”

Natasha crossed her arms. “You could fix that.”

“Too sick to operate,” Steve recited what other consultants had told him, time and time again. “I'm more of a liability than anything else. Knowing my luck, I'll just get sick again from something else.” One side of his mouth lifted into that smile Bucky always tried to knock away, but it was better than sounding pathetic to a stranger. “Some other part of my body will decide to give up, sounds like, so doctors wonder what’s the point.”

Natasha shifted, taking a deep breath at this confession. She raised an eyebrow. “You want to get better, though?”

“‘course,” Steve scoffed. “But I think… y’know. Not sure if surgery is right for me.”

Something brightened in Nat’s face. It made a world of difference as she grinned, the expression less menacing. “Glad to hear it, kid.”

“Not a kid,” he scowled.

Her posture loosened. “What are you, fifteen?”

“Try twenty-two,” Steve corrected, a little sore about it. After getting to know her better, she’d eventually reveal she was a year older. She seemed to catch the hint, putting up placating hands— Steve finally able to confirm the syringe in her grasp. It was large— the gauge of the needle more threatening than anything Steve had confronted before when getting IVs.

He pointed at it. “Is that what you were up to earlier?”

“How about next time I show you?” Natasha diverted, and Steve thought he was right when he believed there would never be a next time. Natasha was restless where she stood. “Sorry to cut it short—”

“If you’re worried about getting caught,” Steve spoke, slow, “you can take the backdoor.”

He could feel himself being assessed by Natasha. Steve adjusted his sweater, which suddenly felt snug around his collar.

“As thanks,” Steve offered cooly. “You’ve made my night… interesting, at least.”

The answer was acceptable, Natasha following him, asking again if Steve was sure he didn’t have a car.

“It’d be a lot easy to drive away in a blaze of glory.” Steve almost laughed at the mental picture she provided, his chest seizing a little.

“You know you wouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing if you just—” he sighed, groaning inwardly as he realized he was starting to sound like Bucky. _Steve, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting blood stains out before your ma can see if you’d just stop fighting._ “You know what? Nevermind.”

She smiled again. Fond this time, it registered to Steve. Fond, like Bucky used to look at him when he wasn’t so tired anymore. Before last  . Steve’s stomach hurt when he realized how much he’s missed that look. He was almost caught off guard when she told him her name— the syllables falling out. _Nah-tash-uh_. He adjusted his hearing aid.

“Or just Nat.” The word clicked against her teeth, Steve oddly fascinated— spell only broken when she vanished from his sights.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you guys think! Encouragement and respectful suggestions are always welcomed!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/) here.


	3. A thankless job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holidays and travel threw my schedule off. I'd meant to update earlier, but better late than never, right?
> 
> Thank you to [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for reading this over for me.

People who couldn’t afford to live up top were stashed away here in the underground hideaway. They lived their lives carefully balanced on a needle— moving at irregular intervals. Steve confronted the futility of it— if Hydra and Cynthia Schmidt knew there was no where else for them to go, why not storm the underground and put a stop to these likely-rebel candidates once and for all? Hydra had the resources. Natasha point-blank explained that clearly Hydra and Schmidt didn’t care, as long as the streets were kept clean, superficially maintaining the facade that things were better than the times her father was around. Knowing Hydra was aware of them— that none of their group’s attempts were a secret but ignored as if insignificant— infuriated Steve more than it did for the others, who simply accepted things as they were. Steve felt powerless.

“If they know people are down here and need help, why not do something?” he’d asked once.

Natasha approached him, hand wrapped around the circumferences of his arm. Months would pass eventually, Natasha’s hand no longer big enough to encircle his bicep. At the time Steve was still new to life underground, thin but getting healthier everyday.

“Because they don’t care if it doesn’t make a profit,” she told him with a level eye. “Because the world is ugly.”

“Plastic surgery got popular for a reason,” Barton chimed in, appearing at Natasha’s side.

Steve jerked away and stormed off. It’d been a childish reaction, but reflecting back, Steve didn’t know what else he could have done. Laugh? No, that would have been accepting something. Admitting defeat.

And Steve had never been good at that, blessing or curse. Particularly when it came to Bucky. Deep down, he’d always been waiting for them to catch a break and have a chance. A chance at what, he isn’t sure. It was just a far off, shapeless dream. Steve, healthy and no longer dragging Bucky down, free to do… something. Date each other? Sleep together? None of those things sounded right. It didn’t capture everything he felt and wasn’t enough.

Back in the camp, Steve found unmistakable features, blurring as he walked past the others. His first objective was to return the mask back to the medical tent-- he didn’t need it underground, as most of the toxic fumes traveled up and cooked into the smog that lay over the city. His second objective was to get some rest.

Averting his eyes didn’t shut the features out. Everything was brown hair or eyes that were just close enough to the right shade of blue as he made his way to his cot. Steve was too bone tired to change or take out his contacts— laying down no better than remaining vertical. His body ached too much to relax. Unable to sleep, he groaned and was actually almost grateful once the earpiece he’d forgotten about crackled to life in his right ear.

“Still awake?” Barton asked over the line. Steve sat up immediately, flattening his palms against his thighs.

“Yeah,” he cracked his neck. “Got something for me?”

“Depends on if you’re willing to go out and get it yourself.” Steve imagined Barton’s dry smile and took this as his cue to head across camp to their usual spot.

The usual spot, in this case, was the only place Natasha could get a decent network connection. She tapped away on a thick black laptop, waving her hand as a means to greet him without turning away from her work on the screen. Steve moved beside her, looking for any sign of Barton and seeing none.

“Well?” he said expectantly.

“I have an idea,” she started, screens with tan code flashing past her, too quick and small for Steve to read— not that he could hope to understand. This was Nat’s field of expertise, not his. “Something that’ll put both our minds to rest.”

Steve crossed his arms against his chest, face skeptical as he leaned against the wall. She tsked.

“What we need is information,” she continued, concentrating on the screen. Laptop carefully balanced on her knees, she pulled a flash drive out of its port . The tan writing blinked out and disappeared. When she turned to Steve, she held out the flash drive, waiting for him to take it. Slowly, he did.

“On...?” Steve turned the device over in his palms.

“Your boy,” she said simply, and his stomach dropped.

“Tasha—” Steve began, because it was useless. He could never forget what he saw on the news. Five years ago the report ran, claiming Bucky and his classmates had died in an accident. What he saw today had been a freak coincidence.

“Rogers,” she cut him off, refusing to take the flash drive when he tried to pass it back. “Closure is a rare gift,. I’d take it if I were you.”

But Natasha couldn’t understand how somewhere along the lines, he’d considered Bucky not as a mortal wound, but more as a sore on his body. One he was always aware of with every forward movement he took, one he had to pick at until it bled. It would never stop. Discovering what really happened— it might help heal him, sure. Maybe Steve was afraid of just that. Stubbornly keeping the pain was the only guarantee his could make to never forget Bucky. The pain was the only thing he had left.

Part of him wondered what Sam would have to say if he shared any of this. It wouldn’t be good. It couldn’t be healthy. That was only part of the reason Steve didn’t go to Sam for advice— the other half figuring Sam had better things to do.

If he explained— if Natasha knew, he already had an idea of what she’d have to say, too. It wasn’t any prettier. Swallowing, his hand tightened around the drive. Natasha frowned.

“Break that and you’ll have a hell of a time finding a replacement,” she said lightly. Steve’s grip loosened. His voice sounded very far away when he told her he’d do it.

“Barton’s bringing the truck around,” she told him. Steve waited. He should have left it alone. Like many things in his life, he should have taken the hint and learned to move on. Something in Steve’s brain— a quiet nagging in the back of it— would never let him rest.

 

* * *

 

This time, Natasha planned to hang back in the truck with Barton, leaving Steve on his own. No one else needed to be involved in what Steve considered to be a personal matter, especially if there was a possibility of risk. Sam and the others had had enough of that for a night.

“I’ll be able to get a signal from this distance,” was her explanation staying off the field. She needed Steve to connect the drive into their main computer. After, they’d be in the system.

“Is this one going to go as smoothly as last night?” Steve asked, straight-faced. It earned a threat from Natasha to kick him out of the truck while it was still moving.

Once they parked around the back, Steve put on breathing mask and slipped out of the truck, taking off running immediately. He pocketed the drive for good measure. Water splashed up around his knees as his feet hit the asphalt. Coming to a stop, he saw the building’s back entrance bordered up. Luckily, a few crates provided an opportunity for him to reach the window. Glancing inside first, he kicked it in. Without his hearing aid, Steve was unable to gauge just how loud the crash was with both ears-- hoping no one would be alerted by the noise. The warehouse was dim— the dust so thick Steve could see the particles as the sun began to rise. The neglect didn’t surprise him, as this too was rumored to be another part on the outer ridges of the city most people who weren't working for Hydra tended to avoid. He stopped, barely breathing and waiting for something.

“You inside?” Natasha asked after a few minutes.

His fingers pressed to his earpiece. “Someone impatient?”

“Or somebody is slow.”

Steve huffed a laugh, and then looked around. No computer was in sight.

“Natasha, I don’t—”

“On the floor there should be a door and a flight of stairs going down. Take them.”

Steve started checking the obvious, open parts of the floor with nothing he could see that would suggest a door. Until he stepped closer to a group of shattered crates and heard his footsteps drowned out in what would appear to be a hollow metal space reverberating sound below him. He glanced down, removing the pieces and tossing them aside. Steve rolled his eyes at the terrible attempt at using a rug to conceal their secret compartment's entrance.

“Can’t believe—” he grunted, bending down and opening the thick metal door with some difficulty. A cloud of dust went up in his face when he did— Steve instantly worried about his asthma before remembering the mask. “—these are the guys who’re running the city.”

“In their defense, this place hasn’t been touched since Skull’s death,” she commented in his ear. He can hear the shrug in her voice. “Can’t imagine the new Schmidt at the helm would ever pull this sort of thing. Not exactly her style.”

Steve didn’t respond as he crept down the stairs, arms spread as he attempted to get a feel for this new space in the dark. The movement triggered the lights, brightness flooding the room. Instantly, the smell hit him— almost like once he was able to see, he could recognize the stench of old bones and stained clothing. The stench of decay was strong enough to pierce through his mask. Threading carefully, it appeared that a fight must have broken out— but who murdered these men and women, he hadn’t a clue. The deep cracks in their skulls, the ripped Hydra uniforms and shattered ribs suggested such violence.

He made an effort to breathe through his mouth and dusted off the keyboard and screen with his sleeve. The port was on the side of the long keyboard— which was about the length of Steve’s arm— and he pressed in the drive successfully after an attempt or two.

He heard Natasha’s relief over the line in the form of an exhale.

Then, the monitor came to life. A login screen, as Natasha ran a decryptor— Steve seeing everything Natasha was doing on this end. She typed almost too quick for him to catch it— _32557038_. For the password, Natasha paused.

“Quick, your birthday,”

Steve blinked. “July 4th.”

Whatever she’d gotten from it, Natasha seemed pleased— murmuring a quiet “bingo” before continuing. Steve could only watch so long before he asked what she did.

‘Well, Barnes worked for Hydra, didn’t he? What do you think the chances are they didn’t completely wipe his credentials and login when he died?” He watched a progress bar load, emitting a soft ding upon completion. Natasha was copying files, Natasha was opening files. Too much for him to process. His knees went weak, a reminder that he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. “The idea came to me today— there’s a good chance they never wiped him from the system at all, which gives us access. Even if it’s outdated. It’s still an in and I can work with that.”

Natasha droned on, Steve mesmerized when suddenly pictures materialized. And then there was the text. _James Buchanan Barnes_ , it read. A repetition of _Barnes Barnes Barnes_ flooded the large monitor, Steve’s eyes drawn to it on every screen. Natasha continued speaking as windows filled his vision. Bucky’s grades for his program. Pictures of Bucky for his school IDs. A scan of a death certificate that Steve had never seen. Natasha didn’t apologize for any of it.

The windows were artfully closed down, gone as quick as they went. Probably opened on purpose, for Steve’s own benefit., he realized. Part of him was grateful.

“Almost done?” Steve sat down on the chair in front of the computer, fingers gone numb. Unsure of what to do with his hands now. They were unexpectedly steady.

She hummed. “Barnes’ access will get us closer to their main network. Which means getting closer to knowing what’s happening at the top in real time, instead of all this outdated stuff we’ve been stuck with.” Steve nodded, afterwards recalling Natasha couldn’t see him. "Won't make our mysterious inside man lose their head too soon if we can access their database ourselves."

“Damn right,” he forced a response. Natasha didn’t ask him if he was okay until they got back to camp, far out of earshot of everyone else.

 

* * *

 

It was the next day that Natasha pulled him aside, explaining briefly that they needed to talk.

“I know you saw it.” She opened her laptop, Bucky’s file already up. His eyes couldn’t help but skim, grazing over the words. Date of birth, date of death. “You wanted to move on or mope. Whatever it is you do. But I wanted to make sure.”

“Romanoff,” he gritted his teeth. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

With no one to claim Bucky’s body after the accident— _it should have been me_ , he thought— Hydra would have seen his best friend as nothing more than raw material. Sold off his organs and gray cells, every single scrap of Bucky. He lived on in strangers. People who didn’t deserve him, like the repo man at the docks.

“Usually there’s a trail, Steve,” Natasha fixed him with a stare, willing him to listen. “I couldn’t find one. He wasn’t a donor.”

“Maybe—” Steve tried to argue, at a loss of what Natasha was getting at.

“Evidence in these records suggest Hydra was chemically brainwashing and enhancing their students for their programs. In order to make them dedicated to their cause. Programs similar to the one Barnes was scouted for.”

“Bucky wasn’t a traitor,” Steve said, fingers curling into fists. “He knew me and I— look, even if that were the case, maybe that’s why they couldn’t use him as a donor. Why he isn’t on any list. The chemicals—”

“Are you that naive?” Natasha laughed, dark and bitter. “Are you suggesting Hydra was afraid of a little lawsuit? Of violating human rights? Have you been paying attention at all, or have you just forgotten?”

The room stopped, the two still and unable to look away from one another. Steve wanted to hit something, chest heaving, whereas Natasha looked like she wanted to knock some sense into him for a split moment before forcing her shoulders to relax. Steve wished he had such an off switch.

“Bucky didn’t make me sick, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he said, calm and slow as possible. Each word carefully laid out. Natasha hadn’t brought up her theory in years. “He worked to help me, even if Hydra was drugging him he still wouldn’t--”

“Hydra made you sick either way, Rogers,” she smirked in a way he reacted badly to. It was the neither confirming or denying that she believed him that boiled his blood. “Your friend signed his life away no matter how you want to spin it. But I’m not here for that.”

She directed him to her laptop, where Steve took a second to process he was looking at an image of himself breaking a window— low-quality and blurry. It was clearly from a security camera, the time stamp on the image revealing it was from the other morning. The shot was paired with one of the last photos he’d ever taken for a citizen ID card. Skinny and pale enough that his freckles show, Steve recognized this one better than the former image. The broad shoulders and longer legs failed to add up immediately.

“Congratulations,” Natasha scrolled. “There’s a warrant for your arrest.”

“Nice to feel wanted,” he commented dryly. After a moment, he spoke again. “You think they’ll come for me?”

“Probably, and it’s probably only a matter of time until they pay us a visit.” Despite the severity of her words, Natasha had almost a giddiness about her.

“What’s got you so happy?” Steve asked, clearly missing a beat.

“It means—” Natasha stretched, elongating her body in a way Steve didn’t mean to stare at. Natasha was strong and compact, Steve sometimes forgetting just how strong. How much of a threat was kept quiet, a secret weapon. She turned back to Steve, looking pleased. “—we found something.”

“If Bucky wasn’t listed as a donor, the chances of someone just looking like him are…” Steve trailed off. He looked at Natasha desperately, like he frequently did in the beginning of their work when he had questions he was hopeless answering for himself. “What is this, Nat? What happened?”

“Whatever it is,” she said, voice dropped low in warning as her expression shifted. “it’s probably not good.”


	4. Part of the collection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all my love to those who continue to cheer me on. [Jannet](http://what-a-bird-does.tumblr.com/) and [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) (who is also my poor beta) in particular.

The day leading up to his last fight with Bucky hardly felt different from any other day. Natasha’s visit— an event that had become a weekly event— had left Steve in a spin. She challenged him, tried to widen his gaze, and often left him fascinated and uncomfortable. In retrospect, Steve could see it their interactions that saved his life and put him in danger, and also spurred the last argument he would ever have with Bucky.

Banter with Natasha was shorter this time. She cut off their polite dancing around one another by asking, “do you want to see something?”, which Steve was hopeless to ignore. Anything would be better, he’d thought, than to stay cooped up inside.

Steve hadn’t expected that something to be a mass grave, Natasha skidding down the sides of it and climbing in, boots on flesh and tangled limbs. It was only a short walk from his home, this arrangement of various skin tones and arms at sharp angles, Natasha careless of it all as she pulled out a long syringe, similar to the one Steve’d seen on their first meeting. The smell alone stunned him, Steve refusing to cup his hand over his own mouth and nose. Mechanically Natasha bent over and shoved the needle up a corpse’s nose, Steve bracing himself and resisting the cringe deep in his muscles, his entire body disturbed. He wasn’t going give that shocked reaction to Natasha, even when he heard the crunch of the metal syringe cracking cartilage.

“Like what you see?” she asked him. Her hair was longer five years ago, a result of straightening her curls. A few strands escaped from behind her ear and fell into her face, but her smile for lack of a better word managed to peek out.

“Not particularly,” he said, arms crossing over his chest— flustered.

When Natasha finished, she twirled around to meet him, glancing up as she walked to the edge, expectant. “Let me guess: no one ever told you how we get Serum?”

She recapped the needle, concentrated on the tip and avoiding sticking her fingers. She described how once the world had polluted the air enough to turn it into poison, amazingly enough bodies became a catalyst for what would be known as Serum— a “natural” painkiller. Next thing thing Natasha knew, she was harvesting those addictive components from the dead. It was a source of income and power— the thousands of people who were sick and needed surgery required help to deal with the pain. The privileged, who wanted a new face or body, liked the high.

No one had told him any of this. The source of the drug wasn’t public knowledge. The news made him feel like a child, left in the dark on purpose.

“Those are people, you know,” Steve frowned, consciously not offering a hand out of the grave, not completely sure if she’d pull him over into the ditch or not. Natasha looked absolutely tickled about it, glancing at Steve’s attempt to occupy his hands by stuffing them up into his armpits. The blood that crept into his cheeks, burning red, didn’t hide his shame. “Might be nice if you showed them some respect.”

“Haven’t you heard? You, me. We all belong to Hydra now.” Turned out, she didn’t need his help stepping out of the grave, able to pull herself out with ease. She walked ahead of him, fiddling with the syringe again. “We’re not _people_ , just parts. That down there?” Natasha glanced back. “Only spares.”

Steve cocked his head. This too was news to him. That was when he learned the truth of the donor organs— at the beginning they were illegally harvested from the dead, the sick, and poor to help those who could afford it. The sickness followed those people, infecting the rich and causing them to spend more money to save themselves. None of it made sense to Steve, unable to wrap his mind around this corrupt business. The endless and unfair cycle. How nobody knew. He thought Natasha was wrong. Or, Natasha could have been lying— perhaps to make herself appear to be a “good guy”, working for a righteous cause. But she didn’t come across to Steve as someone who thought herself a hero and wanted others to think it, too.

“Where do you think they got their organs? Hydra, our _savior_ ,” she scoffed, likely at the both of them. Pathetic him, and the awful corporation killing them all. “Everyone has to start somewhere. Everyone bends a couple rules to get where they are today.”

“But these are… people,” Steve tried to convey the horror of it all, the inability to understand it. It no longer mattered how Natasha was challenging him to react— he’d finally taken the bait. There had to be a line drawn, a basic human rights line and back then, Steve thought everyone in variation was held to it.

Natasha must have sensed that in him and backed off. Her face slackened. “And where nature failed, Hydra stepped in, kid.”

 _No_ , Steve shook his head. Still unable to believe it even to this day.

“As long as they’re watching over us, we’re stuck,” Natasha stopped looking at him, focusing more on the thick gray ooze she’d gathered. The Serum. “Even your precious boyfriend. Then one day we’re done in, and it doesn’t matter anymore.”

In that moment he thought Natasha to be cruel, as brutal and honest as she was. When he wasn’t fighting against the enormous acceptance it’d take— allowing his world to be turned inside out— Steve had deep down appreciated this, how she didn’t try to spare his feelings. As he grew to know her later, Steve can see how bitter she was back then— scared, even.

“Broken hearts, sad brains, jumbled nerves…” she continued, listing off health issues as she moved forward in the direction of the house. Graceful as she carefully put one foot before the other as if on a tightrope. “Butterflies in our stomach. Love is a defect, like anything else.”

He kept his jaw tensed, refusing to comment on that last one.

“It's up to us to fix nature's mistake.”

“Let me guess: you’re going to somehow fix all this with that?” Steve gestured to the syringe, doubtful. She glanced towards the vial before lifting it in the air, the weak daylight trying to illuminate it.

“Sure,” she said, lightly. “And maybe if you’re good next time, I’ll explain how.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Bucky was unsettled. He moved from room to room, Steve watching with downcast eyes as he drew halfheartedly. Bucky hadn’t been too keen on talking the night before, Steve recalled. He was probably in for the same treatment today. Slowly over time, they’d been heading in this direction. His best friend was closing further and further into himself, and whenever Steve tried to ask what was wrong, Bucky would make an effort to act fine. After the stress of graduation, which was nearing closer every single day for Bucky, Steve held out hoping maybe everything would change for the better.

“Gonna need a new rug, keeping that up,” Steve finally commented, watching Bucky startle.

Bucky’s arms went to his own sides, chuckling nervously. “Thought it might be nice to redecorate.” His hands went into his pockets as he swung around, headed for where Steve sat.

Bucky’s hands had never been all that big— Steve’s were the larger of the two— but they seemed just right. Strong, not callused from his studies in the city. Clean and faintly chemically sterile-smelling— the scent lingering on Steve’s clothes whenever Bucky gripped his shoulder. There was less touch like that now. He’d always wanted to take Bucky’s hand, turn it over in his and see what the lines of his palm looked like in detail. Trace them with his index, see how deep they went into his skin. Steve was never the tactile one, the one who initiated. Consistently he failed to act on his impulses unless he was about to cause a fight.

“I was just thinking,” Bucky started up again, draping across the arm of the chair Steve was in. Steve shot him a look, mocked-annoyed, but it didn’t land. His stomach churned at the joy of their closeness. “I should be coming into some time off.”

It was surprising, the relief that hit Steve. Something loosened in his chest— loneliness, maybe. “Yeah?”

“Might be good,” Bucky nodded. “I can stay here, make sure you got everything you need during the day—”

Steve felt sick.

“You’re not playing doctor on your day off, too,” he insisted. “When was the last time you didn’t have to—”

“Think of it this way, I’m helping a friend,” Bucky had tried to placate him, hands up in surrender. He’d looked so tired, dark lines under his eyes. Tired and older than Steve could bear. “What kind of friend would I be if—”

“I’m not getting any better, Buck,” he gritted, thinking of Natasha. Thinking how he didn’t want to take from anyone else if she turned out to be right after all. Openly aware of how futile it all was because he was always going to sick. Then: “Why keep trying?”

The room stopped, until Bucky asked— clear and simple: “Do you really want that answer?”

There was no choice but to yield, let the argument die. Steve had to stop because there was that rule. Steve stopped because otherwise it meant digging everything up. They would have to talk about the unspoken thing neither of them should ever mention. The one other time Bucky had tried to tell Steve how he felt was  was last winter during a close call with pneumonia, where Steve stopped him with a hoarse “don’t”. The hurt on Bucky’s face was all the answer Steve needed to know how deeply he felt, and why they couldn’t do anything about it. Bucky needed to have a life beyond Steve. Eventually, Bucky _would_ have a life beyond Steve.

“Do what you want,” Steve told him, tossing the sketchbook off his lap as he rapidly got up. Bucky slid over into his seat with an “oof”, watching Steve with wide eyes. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“C’mon. Steve—” Bucky began, tone like he wanted to apologize. Steve twisted back, glaring and demanding if Bucky knew where all of Hydra’s organs came from, asking if Bucky meant to leave him in the dark. He thought of telling Bucky about the mass grave, when it occurred to him Bucky probably already knew. Bucky’s face paled, a half-formed question on his lips as he tried to ask where Steve heard about _“the recycling program”_ — without confirming or denying the information, or the fact Bucky had known the truth the entire time.

“How—” Bucky had begun to ask, but Steve shouted he should really be asking “who”. Bucky sobered instantly with a “so there is someone coming to the house,” like he already knew. It wasn’t a question. Only a reaffirming statement to himself. It struck Steve as half the reason Bucky may have come into his sudden “time-off”. Angry beyond words, Steve left. Bucky let Steve walk away, and Steve had always wondered why. How someone could make another person their whole world while keeping them at arm’s length at the same time? The irony was lost on him for years.

Steve had no way of knowing that in a few hours Hydra would send people to collect him, that through Natasha’s intervention he’d leave the place he’d grown to resent as a home (“ _—we’re in Jersey, Buck, this isn’t Brooklyn_ ”). He was on his bed, still fuming when she knocked on his window, having climbed up the roof. At the time he’d only wanted space from Bucky— unaware of Hydra’s plans to take him in for what appeared to be aiding a graverobber. Originally the idea was they  would leave and Steve could cool off, until he saw the men in black scoping out the place and Natasha panicked and took him back with her.

Moving through the heart of the city that had changed beyond recognition since his childhood, Steve coughed and hated every moment. But letting Bucky know that Steve was capable of leaving at any time was important to him. When he realized that Bucky was probably worrying and wearing a hole in the carpet— they’d definitely need to get a new rug now— Steve saw the cruelty of his actions. Bucky worried enough— Bucky was good and didn’t believe Steve was some weak thing. He’d never viewed Steve as such. He and Peggy were the only ways who wouldn’t hold back when they were kids playing. Bucky was just as scared of losing Steve as Steve was of saying goodbye.

One coughing fit led to another, Natasha calling on a doctor who looked anything but. Brown, long and curly hair. Bruce would become a friend later, much later after his blood drawn and tests were read out. It was revealed that beyond the environmental factors, Steve was being poisoned— and at Bruce’s mere suggestion it appeared to come from the meds Bucky was giving him, Steve erupted. He refused to accept the idea that Bucky played a hand in this, but part of him could see how it made sense. Made things convenient. Natasha, critical of everyone’s motives, agreed with the theory. Steve hated her sometimes for it in the beginning.

He’d bring into question if Bucky really wanted what was best for him. The doubt hurt more than the any possible hate until he saw the news clip artificially mourning the sudden accidental deaths of all the students in Bucky’s program. Thirty seconds was all they gave for the story, Bucky’s name captured on the list of the dead. Steve didn’t even have time to cry. The guilt swallowed him whole. It was Hydra— all of this was Hydra. He’d needed Natasha to be wrong and she wasn’t: Hydra would stop at nothing. He was willing to give her that, anything besides believing Bucky was guilty. Steve was ashamed for even considering the idea.

Saying goodbye wasn’t as much terrifying as it was like amputation. Steve was restless, propelled forward as he singled in on one cause: the destruction of Hydra.


	5. Some mighty fine print

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for reading this over for me!!

Having a target on his back didn’t make Steve paranoid. Bucky would have called it reckless, a reasonable enough statement, sure. Steve could agree. In his spine he felt it, though—the thrill; the sensation of being alive. The prey throwing off the natural balance shared with its predator.

But no, Bucky would have been proud—Steve wasn’t a complete moron. In the weeks following the call for Steve’s arrest, he stayed mostly above ground, maintaining a low profile. When he was underground, it was mostly to sleep in the truck. There was no need to get too close, get someone else below ground involved when he could just get up and drive away. These were people’s homes now, and Steve knew of that importance. He’d had two in his lifetime, and though the last one was tinged with mixed feelings now, this place wasn’t one of them. It was no problem not coming back to his tent every night. It only meant that he would try to dig up any information he could about one of Hydra’s ghosts, one repo man in particular.

Of the three people he spoke to regularly, Barton was the only one who didn’t think he was being ridiculous—simply shrugging and mumbling something about “man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Suffice it to say. Sam and Natasha didn’t share Barton’s views. Barton earned a heavy shake of the head from Sam and a deadly look from Natasha paired with angry hand gestures. Since the loss of the hearing aid for Steve’s left ear, Barton had tried teaching Steve the basics for signing to help bridge the gap. Unable to get the hang of it completely, Steve didn’t have to reply on sign to know Barton was in trouble.

 

* * *

 

“You ever wonder,” Steve started, thinking aloud one night during a job. Natasha sat in the truck with him, idly checking over her taser. Since Barton had the best long-distance sight of their entire team, he was off shooting out the cameras—a lesson learned.

“Wonder what?” she prompted, casual. Appearing distracted as she continued to fiddle with the device in her hands as if Steve’s words weren’t the least bit interesting. Waiting for him, he knew, to step into her trap willingly. He made the decision to, forcing himself to look far off into the corner of the truck’s bed.

“Why don’t people take a good thing when they’ve got it?” Steve shrugged, and Natasha must have caught his meaning because she stopped moving her hands.

The possibility that Steve and Bucky weren’t meant to be _Steve and Bucky_ was something Steve considered whenever he used to wonder about what to do with his feelings for his best friend. Bucky never seemed to reciprocate that same degree of fondness until the move to Jersey—the evidence found in the lingering looks of affection that made Steve’s face heat up; the warmth of Bucky’s hand on his jaw with the close proximity of their bodies. At first, Steve was hopeful that Bucky loved him because he was worth loving, because they were meant to be and not because Bucky had no one else.

He could have chalked up their inability to talk about it to the fact the both of them were so goddamn stubborn that they were willing to dance circles around each other for the rest of their lives instead of one being the first to break down and say something. Or maybe because he was sick, and Bucky—as self-sacrificing as he was when it came to the people he loved—didn’t want to find out how to cope in a world where everything was exposed with nothing left to uncertainty and Steve wouldn’t always be there to love him back. The love gained and loss would be too much. All of that changed when Bucky nearly lost Steve one night to something in his lungs. Through the haze of drugs, Steve narrowed in on Bucky’s face, pale and tear-stained. He was always the first to cry, while Steve held it in like someone who had something to prove. But when the worst of the pneumonia had passed, Bucky tried to tell him. Steve bit his bottom lip and wouldn’t hear it, denial taking hold of him. Bucky had to be settling, Bucky had to be desperate.  The dance wasn’t fun anymore, no more thrill of _will he, won’t he?_ to be found.

Steve should have heard him out. He should have done a lot of things, like let Bucky know. Let Bucky have him, even for that short while. He should have taken the closest he’d ever have to a good thing while there was a chance.

His mouth clamped shut then, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose where it hadn’t heal right in his scrappy fight-prone childhood. He should have been the first one to say something. Bucky was always the one giving in, wearing himself down looking after Steve—stopping Steve from being reckless.

“Forget I said anything,” he said quickly, before Natasha could speak. “Jesus, I must be tired. This isn’t the time—”

“Going soft on me, Rogers?” Natasha smiled, straightening her posture in the seat next to him. It must not have been an accident when her knee knocked into his. Natasha was more careful than that. “Reminiscing in your old age?”

An out for this conversation, he hazily recognized, and he took it, grateful for about a minute until Natasha spoke again.

“I know you’re trying to find out who our guy is,” she stated plainly. “And I know you’re not getting anywhere. And you know that if you asked, I could help.” Her eyes scanned over his face. “Because judging by the lack of sleep, this means something to you. And it’s eating you up that you’re not getting anywhere.”

“I don’t even know what I’m looking for, honestly,” Steve confessed after a beat. “He either won the fucking… genetic lottery or he happened to get—” _Bucky’s face_ , he couldn’t say it. _His spare parts_.

“Or something else entirely,” Natasha threw the idea out there, coming across as cryptic. Harmless, for the time being. Steve didn’t think much about it until he conceded and asked for Natasha’s help. Lots of fingers in lots of different pies, she and Barton used to say with a grim smile. From the good old days where she was a Serum dealer, a grave robber.

He would never forget when Natasha gave him the file days later. He resisted taking it, demanding “what is it?”, only to be told, Natasha’s mouth tight, just to read it.

 

* * *

 

Everyone knew this part of the story: when the world appeared to have turned against humanity by making them sick, a new biotechnology company rose. Hydra told the citizens of New York that they could be saved. What they had discovered was a miracle, a wonderful cure, and promised everyone could live—for the right price. Surgery and organ implants rose in popularity and demand under Hydra’s hand. No one talked about what the cure was. No one mentioned how dirty and bloody Hydra’s hands had become under the philosophy that they were working towards a better world. Bodies were unburied while they were fresh, organs stolen and reused. Corners were cut, surgeries botched. Not a single soul would come out of this period without their own set of scars.

What also wasn’t discussed is how ten years ago, Hydra was having difficulty with people not paying their bills. Hydra was soon to be bankrupt, low on resources. There were only so many lungs and livers to go around.

Harvesting the organs from the dead and diseased, piled high in mass graves, hardly cost a thing. Most of the money generated was donated, sources say, by the owner and founder, Johann “Red Skull” Schmidt, back into the city. Money made him king of New York—of the century. The world was chaos, dangerous, with no one answering to anyone. Schmidt owned the police, the media. All that control made it easier, Steve can see, for the repo man program to be initiated.

The papers before Steve confirm all of this, despite him never having heard of the repo man program. He supposed no one had, not even the human beings who signed their names on the admittance paperwork.

For all intents and purposes, it looked like a great deal: once you were in, it was guaranteed all participants would live comfortable lives. They sought those who showed promise, those who excelled in math and sciences. They had to be healthy and strong. The program promised applicants could bring change and be a vital part of the machine that was Hydra. The benefits extended to loved ones, who would be taken care of by the government by any means necessary. Large grants involving money, or in some cases—treatment for ill loved ones

Steve swallowed, his horror confirmed as he looked down the list of names of those who had signed their lives away. He only recognized one.

 _It’s my fault_ , he thought, no longer seeing the words in front of him. The file seemed far away. He didn’t need it to be able to learn what Bucky’s thoughts must have been, who he was thinking about when he signed his name. There’s a photocopy with Bucky’s signature on a contract. Bucky couldn’t have known what his training really entailed—the wording vague. It sounded more like these people had signed on to become doctors—all expenses paid. They were going to help people. They thought they were going to help people. As the training continued and Hydra’s true plan revealed, compliance was sought in a variety of ways: drugs and brainwashing.

The year Steve turned 22 was the fall of Schmidt from power. After his sudden death, things went into motion quickly. The unexplained and conveniently tragic elevator accident that supposedly killed Bucky and all his classmates—the  repo man candidates, he corrected himself—the sudden rise of Cynthia Schmidt and her new and improved Hydra. New, yes; improved, but only on the surface level. The streets were cleaned up. There was organization to this chaos, something her father had never managed in his deranged madness.

And on top of all this, a ghost story—meant to scare everyone into making their payments or else the repo men might come after you.

It could have been more than one person. All of them were dosed with the same chemicals, all had the same training. The influence the Schmidt family held in the media could have given false reports, claiming everyone to be dead. It certainly would make their disappearance as Hydra swallowed them whole a lot easier with no one looking for those who had gone missing.

At the end of the file, there was a Manhattan address—a lead. It took Steve a moment to recognize it as Bucky’s school.


	6. Don’t look back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than usual update as everything is starting to pick up~
> 
> Once again, all my thanks go to [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for reading this over for me!!

The end of Hydra’s Red Skull wasn’t by their hand, not directly.

The order of events as Steve knew them was this:

Natasha on his roof, trying to say goodbye. The farewell felt more like a thank you, Steve not ready to let her go quite yet. His anger towards Bucky propelled him from his bed. He asked Natasha if he could come with her, knowing he was like a child throwing a fit and running away from home temporarily. He’d only meant to be gone for a few hours when Steve saw the truck, another man inside. Suddenly the scene escalated into blinding lights and officers telling them to freeze. Steve was swept away by Natasha who grabbed his hand and made him run until his lungs couldn’t take him any further. Even then, she didn’t leave him behind. Later he would realize his hearing aid had fallen out in their desperation to escape capture.

Barton met them not too soon after that at a rendezvous point. The three went back onto Long Island, up north into Hell’s Kitchen to a small studio apartment the two had claimed as a base of operations. Between coughing fits caused by the increased smog in the air, Natasha and Barton promised this would all blow over. They explained Steve could go home in a day or two. Meanwhile Steve was _worrying worrying worrying_ about what Bucky was saying, doing, feeling—Steve occupied with missing him and his anger still.

Days passed, enough that Natasha eventually gave Steve one of Barton’s sweaters as a change of clothes. There was plenty of aimless waiting around. Gazing out the windows for a sign to come home, unsure of what that was supposed to look like. Then: Steve blacking out, meeting another friend of Natasha’s. Dr. Banner tried to explain to Steve that he was having withdrawals from his medication—medication that upon closer examination didn’t make sense.

“For the conditions you’re describing you have… you wouldn’t be taking these,” Dr. Banner said, shaking his head, fist subtly clenching as he shook with anger, muttering about malpractice. Steve learned his current medications only served to make Steve sicker. Steve was filled with disbelief. Not long after, on the old pixelated television kept in the living room, he saw every reason not to come home. The news report aired, short and briefly explaining how Bucky was gone. Natasha stared at him closely, as though she expected him to crack. He didn’t fight it when he did. Even when Natasha reached out to hold him, he still didn’t fight it.

The dominoes all seemed to fall into place after that. Questions raised about Johann Schmidt’s character. The leak from inside Hydra that he was sick. The rumors were everywhere, rumors of insanity. Rumors that turned out to be true when Schmidt was being broadcasted live during an interview and suddenly revealed his face to be a fleshy mask—beneath was nothing more than the red skull that earned him the moniker he was reduced to. Steve remembered the quiet audience, so silent as if his hearing went completely out. Skull’s mouth opened, teeth jutting out. It looked painful, as though he was being burned alive from within and screaming.

The untimely death of the Red Skull occurred only weeks later. Probably set up by his conniving daughter, Natasha mused with a sort of respect. “No one ever suspects the woman at first in these matters,” she explained. Steve had learned early on that life is an even playing field. Hard not to when Natasha’s on it. Or back when Peggy was—still is, he hoped. The world as they knew it would fall at their feet with the combined efforts of Nat and Peggy, Steve was sure. He was also confident they would get on like a house on fire.

Hydra nearly buckled at the loss of their leader. The city had grown desperate with its dependency. The daughter no one had heard of rose to the highest seat of power. Not a protest was raised when she stepped up to the plate. If anyone opened their mouths to speak against her, they were never given much of a chance.

Cynthia Schmidt wrote books about her father and the “Red Skull” disease. She assured everyone who read those pages that she mourned the loss of a brilliant and afflicted mind. But she was safe, she guaranteed her people. Respectable in every sense of the word, the image of a perfect daughter. The people could trust her and at that point, citizens were blinded by their happiness to receive her.

She cracked down on Serum dealers—Natasha’s people. Natasha liked a challenge, but even that was too much for her to continue with the work. She’d lost good friends in those years, but plenty were left to help in her little acts of rebellion. Barton was an extension of Natasha—there were whispers he’d had a wife and kids once, but nothing more was said and now he was here. Once Steve could hold his own, he joined her. They picked up Sam on a mission—he was a person whose house they’d broken into for shelter. After spending only a few hours with Steve, Sam had volunteered to come back with them and help their cause—Sam’s reasoning being his former experience in the Air Force as a pararescue might come in handy. Once she accepted Sam, Natasha would never let Steve live that one down, telling Steve he was meant to be the posterboy for justice.

At night when everything boiled down, Steve would close his eyes only to dream of his life until this point—his life translated into small squares. Compressed into colorless pixels like a simplified black and white TV. It was the news station reporting Bucky’s death, it was the live broadcast where Red Skull revealed his madness. Sometimes Bucky was there. He was the one responsible for ripping Skull’s mask off into bloody shreds. Both were screaming, scratching at something below their own skin and Steve couldn’t hear what they were saying or if they were crying for help.


	7. Something real to cling to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO HELL AND SADNESS, STEVE
> 
> That being said, major love is being sent in [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/)'s direction. Thank you for cheering me on and reading all of this nonsense before I post! Also to you folks reading this, thank you! Shit happened in life, as it always does, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of things again.

Asking to take out the truck created tension, the air made heavy with more than just the question. Steve wondered if he would come back the same person he left as. Is this how a soldier’s march felt—walking towards the unknown, the dread? Answers about what happened waited, he hoped, at Bucky’s school. Natasha was quiet. Any excuse she gave for wanting to come with him Steve saw through and declined. 

“Natasha,” he reassured her, “I can do this.” 

“You got good intel last time,” she murmured, pretending there was something to wipe at on Steve’s cheek. “Don’t be careless.” 

Behind her laid the entire camp. There wasn’t much, but still. Sam was somewhere in the mess of it, Steve failing to tell him he was going out alone. There was so much more at stake here than just Steve. He knew this—the thought was always there at the back of his mind. If something happened to him and only him, it would be less devastating than dragging someone else into this mess more than he had already 

The address of Bucky’s old school was in a popular district, what used to be the heart of a bustling metropolis. After the elevator car collapsed in one of the buildings—Bucky’s institute—the city suddenly declared the whole building to be unsafe and fenced it off. An entire city block was abandoned, dusty signs promising years ago that renovations were coming soon. Nothing came of it. The city and its inhabitants moved on and moved away from the site of the tragedy. 

Climbing over the fence, Steve didn’t linger on the fact the buildings hadn’t changed much from when he last saw them. He had only been here once before, during Bucky’s induction ceremony. Bucky looked so proud, the institute new and shining and tall as if made of polished marble. White and untarnished, its height making it exceptionally harder to not notice. Hydra was proud of what they had created, what they were going to invest in and create still. On that day, Steve felt hope for the first time since losing his mother. 

Steve didn’t find the campus to be quite as beautiful anymore. There was no grass, the ground hard and unkempt. The spaces between the buildings seemed stagnant and too far apart without the students who used to know their inner workings. It was untouched. 

Steve expected to find expanses of wall tagged, but navigating around the block, he found nothing. Back in Brooklyn, this would have been a canvas for kids and their spray cans, but it appeared not even they dared to risk trespassing here. The front door to the medical building was boarded without much effort, the door heavy and stiff when Steve opened it. There was a directory in the lobby, showing him to the basement for the lab. The first room in the basement was a classroom, but between the bookcases—a draft. Prying open the the bookcases, the unsettled dust fell into Steve’s face, causing him to blink and bat at the air. When the dust finally set, Steve took in the second room. 

The backmost wall consisted of a row of tubes labelled with a string of numbers—assigned cryofreeze units, he realized with surprise. According to public knowledge, these were never safe for human usage. Their development was rumored to have started nearly two decades ago for preserving entire humans for future organ transplantation, a fact often quiet. The truth was they were frequently painful for the user, and defrosting was tricky—a dangerous strain on the average human heart. For these reasons, the popularity of cryotubes never took off. 

In the center of the room sat a chair with an overhead structure. Steve couldn’t put his finger on it, but he averted his eyes quickly, as though he wanted to forget he’d seen it. There was no name or explanation for the repulsion he felt towards it, other than the unimaginable horrors for its use. There were dark stains on it, the color of rust. The leather straps attached to the chair hung down to the floor.  

Quickly walking past it, he approached the individual cryo chambers. Most were covered with a dull film, appearing unused. Most, except for one. _32557038._   

He backed away, protesting wordlessly in his head. 

Immediately his hand flew to his comm unit. For once accepting he was in over his head, Steve’s thoughts turned into radio static—until he stopped at the sound of someone else speaking. A previously dark wall lit up with tan pixels on a black screen that extended to the ceiling. A camera flicked over in his direction, his name recited in a monotone voice. Surname, first and middle name. Steve went cold. 

“Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure before,” Steve smirked, no bravado to show for it.  

“Unfortunately no,” it responded. “But I am aware of you, Steven Rogers. Quite the troublemaker you are.” It paused. “Asset _32557038_ would be fairly disappointed, don’t you think?” 

Steve’s smile fell. “What are you?” 

“I am,” it corrected, “as alive as any of you ever will be.” 

Steve looked around, feeling all eyes on him without there being eyes.  

“Who were you?” he demanded, impatient. “Schmidt?”  

“Gracious no.” It sounded smug. “He made a place for me, but I am not such a man. I worked for him. I was called Dr. Zola in those days.”  

“Doctor turned security program?” Steve tutted, still distractedly looking for a weapon. He was never one for guns, didn’t want to bring one. He usually preferred less permanent and more disabling methods for protecting himself. “Must’ve been quite the demotion.” 

Steve’s attempt of humor fell flat on it. “Doctor turned more. Science could not save by body,” it—he—explained. “But I was still useful. Therefore, I still live.” 

“You’re responsible for this then?” Steve gestured to the room. “This program?” 

“Yes,” Zola told him blankly. “With the complete confidence of the head of Hydra, I selected the candidates. I gave them incentive.” 

This gave Steve pause. “What did you do to him?” 

The screen filled with window after window in a flash. Pictures of him, pictures of Bucky. Then, more and more photos of Steve himself. Photos he never knew had been taken. He was skinnier and smiling, pale and happy as he looked at something off to the side. Candid shots, they had to be. Steve rarely smiled like that when he knew someone was going to take a picture. 

“‘The illness of a loved one guarantees compliance’,” Zola recited. “That is what you did to him.” 

 _The poisoned medicine,_ he realized. His poor constitution and the world falling apart had given Zola and Hydra a good headstart: Steve was sick and needed help. Bucky was a great student, always attending class, sharing with Steve his notes when Steve was stuck at home on bed rest. Steve’s mind raced—Bucky’s potential and potential to be used. The steady decline of his health grew more rapid once Bucky had help from the program to get Steve the doctors and medication he needed. They’d been poisoning him from the start—that’s why he got worse so fast. His sickness kept Bucky in the program, insured that Bucky would keep bringing home the medication. Keep giving Steve the pills that made him sicker, even though Bucky thought he was helping. After all these years, Natasha was right: Bucky did make him sick, but only because he thought he was making Steve better. 

Steve was numb. “What did you do to him?”  

“Before or after the accident?” The robotic voice sounded cruel, as if it was sneering. 

“—you saved him, didn’t you?” Steve finally asked, head swimming as he came to terms with Hydra’s roots, the repo man’s roots. When he had to look up to see the gleeful pixelated face on the screen, that was how Steve was made aware he’d fallen down to one knee. The flooring was unfinished, grainy beneath his hand. He had to stand up but couldn’t, his gut twisted as he forced his epiphany into words, making it all the more real. “Not everyone from the repo program was decommissioned. You didn’t kill them all. You—” 

“James Barnes was the successful benefactor of multiple donations.” Steve imagined the joy in the doctor’s computerized voice as he spoke. “His work is praised for bringing Hydra out of financial ruin.” 

“No,” Steve refused. “Bucky wouldn’t have wanted this. If he’d known—” 

“A reasonable assumption,” Zola seemed to agree. “But Hydra is…. persuasive.” 

When the chair behind him sprung to life, Steve was too distracted by the noise to see he was being rushed, electricity crackling into his gut. He collapsed on the agent in black— _not Bucky,_ he thanked whoever in the universe was responsible for this, for small favors—only to get something slammed into the back of his neck. Steve coughed, both knees hitting the ground. Under his arms someone grabbed him, dragging Steve’s winded body towards the chair. With the thick consistency of blood down his face, it was like double vision. Blood on his hands, the color always a particular brown shade to his eyes. The panic at the memory of blood in his lungs, internal and deadly. He heaved, wanting to catch his breath. He would die, and Bucky was alive and he’d never wanted to live more. 

That was when Natasha burst in. He could laugh or cry. Fuck, he was so happy she was here he could almost kiss her. He opted, in the end, to fight—elbow up into the nose of the goon above him.  

“Thought I said I didn’t need your help!” he called out to her, head still light from the panic. Steve did a quick count—only five. Maybe that would have been enough for a surprise attack against him. Adding Natasha to the mix, and all it looked like was a poor miscalculation on Hydra’s behalf.  

“You trying to say I made the wrong call, Rogers?” Natasha ducked, taking two people out by grabbing for her twin tasers and slamming them into their kneecaps. “I can go, if that’s what you’re telling me.” 

Steve caught the leg of one assailant and jumped on their tumbling body—heard them wheeze beneath him, a rib pop. He winced at the sound, the sudden give. He tried not to picture the internal damage and instead did a kindness. A split-second later, he knocked them out with a hit to the head. 

When he rose, there was the faint sound of groaning at their feet. Natasha had the last one conscious assailant in a headlock, dragging them. They were strapped into the chair before Steve could stop her. 

“Romanoff, what—” 

“You want answers?” she demanded. There was a cut on her bottom lip, her eyes wild. Steve couldn’t lie. He did want answers, but—“This is how—” 

“Not this way, not their way.” He reached out to touch her, Natasha slapping his hand away before he got the chance. 

“Torture isn’t exclusive to Hydra, you know,” she gritted. “Trust me on this.” There are things that Steve does not know, will never know from Natasha’s _before_. This was Natasha revealing something—part of her life, he understood. Natasha rarely talked about herself below the surface level. 

“I know,” he tried placating her. It worked well enough—she stepped far enough away only to kick the seated agent in the gut. They wheezed once before their head dropped. She walked past him, to the computer.  

“Romanoff. Natalia Alianovna,” Zola recited. “The Black Widow program has suited you well—” 

That’s all Zola managed to say before she pressed a different drive into the console, the pixelated face blipping out of existence. She stepped back as he heard wires fry and sizzle—that specific electrical burning smell filling the space they inhabited. Steve didn’t say a word, only following her out through the old basement classroom—desks still intact and waiting. Books remained on the shelves and the board still had a professor’s writing on it. He lingered by the stairs, wondering what Bucky used to see when he stood here. Were there any good things worth remembering, or had they all been subsumed by the dark of Zola’s lab, by the torture endured? He desperately hoped this wasn’t the case, that life as Bucky knew it currently wasn’t all based around hurt. 

In the truck he told her that Bucky is alive.  

“I know,” she breathed, her face softening for the first time since her encounter with Zola. She turned around in the truck to look at Steve’s closed-off expression in the passenger side. “Don’t look at me like that—someone just told me. Gave me this.” She dangled the unfamiliar flash drive from before in her hands. “She said it would wipe out Zola.” 

Steve’s brow furrowed. “She?” 


	8. Repossessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short update, but this is the last flashback break for the rest of the story! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has continued to read my trashy fanservice _Repo!_ fic. I really appreciate the kudos! Also, bless [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for being the best proofer. <3 I owe you a million Krispy Kreme donuts.

When Steve lost his mother, he was only sixteen. She’d always been thinner than most, working herself to the bone at the hospital in order to pay the bills as a single parent. Her constitution, doctors told Steve, had been passed onto him. The statement was given with pitying eyes. 

Steve didn’t mind being his mother’s child. 

Once when he’d had a cold, before when that was the least of his problems, he’d had to go along with her to work. He was meant to lay down on the break room sofa with a blanket and something warm to drink. Inevitably, he grew bored and wandered. He saw his mother, smaller than most, yet stronger, somehow. Steve watched from the doorway as she cared and cared, the love bleeding out of her. She’d stopped being just his mother. She was a nurse. She was his whole world and theirs. In school, this didn't change when he was beat down and bullied. He thought, _what would ma do?_ and this question usually led to the answer: _stand up_. Steve kept standing and standing, even if it meant blood on his new shirt.  

He had just gotten his nose broken, something that would never set right again, when Bucky came by and pulled him to his feet. Intrigue at first may have caused Bucky to join Steve’s side right off the bat—thinking, _who was this kid who refused to stay down?_ But that day after school, they both had their asses handed to them by the three older boys. He couldn't shake Bucky, and the harder he tried, the more Bucky seemed to stick. Their second fight together, Steve’s knees scraped to hell and bandaged nose re-broken and bleeding, Bucky launched himself at the bigger boy and walked away victorious, his front baby teeth missing as a result. He grinned at Steve. No questions were asked after that.  

Eventually Bucky would figure out how to handle Steve's stormy personality and once he had, they were living out of each other's pockets. Bucky was a year older and could whistle better than anyone else Steve had met. Bucky had two parents and embarrassing sisters that made Steve laugh at Bucky’s expense. He was happy and life was good then. Even with the hospital visits and concern etched on his mother’s pale face. Steve used to worry if he was anyone else, any different, and maybe he wouldn’t have this. He fought for the girl who was having her pigtails pulled, for anyone who was different because he knew what it was like to be the little guy. Maybe Bucky wouldn't like him as much without this. Steve knew there was no trading this for anything, not ever. He was unapologetic towards the teachers who disciplined his behavior.

Then his ma passed. 

Those days progressed like a bike speeding down a hill—they were quick and without stopping. The job at the hospital, surrounded by the sick, is what most likely killed her. That and taking care of him, Steve had always assumed. The illness that started with a few cases of complete organ failure spread like a flame to gasoline. He’d resisted moving in with Bucky until the rooms previously occupied by Bucky’s siblings started to empty out—until their entire apartment complex seemed to be missing more and more tenants. The Carters next door thought it was best to move before everything went to hell. It was the right decision, Steve knew, even if Peggy disagreed.  

By the time the two boys were all they had of their previous lives, Steve had started to give up on his own body. Maybe this was the natural course of things and making the ones around him expend the energy it took to take care of him prolonged the inevitable. He took away too much from those who bothered to help him, extracted from them some sort of vitality used for their own survival. After Bucky died—or so he was led to believe—immediately this thought took hold of Steve. He was convinced more than ever the death of his mother and best friend could have been avoided if he had just been different somehow. 

Bucky was only 18 when he received his letter commending his academic history. He was only 18 when he made the decision to work for Hydra because people in tailored white suits came to their door and gave them the good news. They promised they’d take care of their housing, since a large majority of the complexes in Brooklyn Heights were going to be taken down, theirs being one of them. Infected, they called it. Beyond repair, their excuses were all the same. They promised to help Bucky take care of Steve. 

In their new house, too big for such young boys, there wasn’t a need for oxygen tanks. They were out of the city, further removed from the smog and chemicals than had they stayed. On an average day, Steve needed an inhaler. He couldn’t run too long or too hard. The winter months, which had always been difficult, were certainly harder now, but Bucky had always been hearty and warm and willing to share a bed. He didn’t mind Steve’s constantly cold fingertips and toes. 

Steve didn’t think he should try to love Bucky then—the feelings strained and guilty. No good—no healthy—thing could grow there, not with how things were; twisted and confusing. Here in this house, they were uprooted from their previous lives. But Christ, did Steve love him; he loved Bucky, and figured Bucky was obligated to love him or else be alone. He doubted Bucky ever had that moment lying in bed with his best friend as an eight year old and thinking they should marry each other and be together. Years later when he met Peggy at school and had those similar feelings, adults called it love and somehow it was only okay to think of Peggy in this way. They _ooh-_ ed and _ahh_ -ed when they thought they were witnessing a little boy’s first crush, but they were mistaken. Bucky was his first. But he got the sense, even as a young child, that feeling like he did for Bucky meant he was confused. Bucky was popular and could have anyone—until suddenly there was no one left. Bucky had decided to tie himself to Steve, isolating himself as a result. Bucky didn’t try to tell him he loved him before, only ever tried to say it until he thought Steve was going to leave, too. Choosing Steve now was settling in Steve’s eyes.  

In that house in New Jersey, they’d resented each other at times. Screaming fights turned into wheezing fits where Bucky had to surrender and grab an inhaler. Hard steps ran away and up the rickety staircase in the style of dramatic teenage exits. They were not at their best for each other. Years of desperate nagging where Steve thought he ought to spill his guts and tell Bucky he was sorry, explaining he'd have rather make these last few years good—make them count—lingered. Instead of long days commuting to the city to study and prolong the inevitable, Steve should have asked Bucky to stay home. Instead they learned each others’ hiding places—Steve’s was under the stairs, Bucky’s on the rooftop where he thought Steve couldn’t follow him or wouldn’t be stupid enough.  

“You’re the stupid one,” Steve gasped on one occasion after making the climb, “to think I wouldn’t come after you.” 

Bucky had chuckled, burying his face into the knees pressed against his chest, his entire body shaking.


	9. Testify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to the beautiful [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for proofing. I absolutely loved writing this chapter! 
> 
> We're almost there, friends! Thanks for sticking with me!

Approaching Natasha’s tent, Steve heard the voices. Barton, he recognized. Sam was there too, sounding unamused. He smiled to himself, having missed that grounding tone. There was another voice, a woman’s. Her accent, though a little rougher, reminded him of growing up and hearing the Carter’s chatter through thin walls. His feet propelled him forward. 

When he opened the flap, he accounted for all the familiar faces, and—  

“Peggy,” he breathed. She turned to face him, her hair longer and still in those curls like he remembered. They bounced into her face, not a hair out of place. Her full lips broke into one of those proud smiles she used to give him. When he looked at the rest of her, though, he noticed the dark Hydra uniform. And insignia. In his jolt of surprise, he accidentally kicked one of the support beams for Natasha’s tent, the entire thing falling down on its inhabitants. _God, today is just not your day, is it, Rogers?_ , he realized with an inward groan 

A moment passed before Steve tried again, sounding less starstruck and more confused. “Peggy.”  

They had to hold up the tent fabric over their heads, Sam looking like he wanted to make a scrapbook of this moment. Steve’s face was hot with embarrassment. 

“Do you recall the tale of the Trojan horse, Steve?” Peggy lifted her chin, ever so slightly—still regal as ever in the moment. All Steve could do was nod. “Excellent, then you can figure the rest out for yourself.” 

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it was you,” Steve shook his head. He and Peggy were alone, warm beer in hand as they chatted in his tent. He hadn’t had a drink in years, but this was a cause for celebration. “You gave Natasha access to their archives?” He knew Natasha and Peggy working together could touch the untouchable.  

“Initially, yes,” Peggy said, having changed into something of Steve’s, something more comfortable. She was several sizes too small for his tank top or sweats and still she managed to make him sweat. “Unfortunately it was all rather—superficial, I’m afraid. Just some messages I caught on the system between the different task forces of locations and what was being moved there.”  

Steve lifted his drink. “But it got the job done.”  

“Depends on your definition.” 

Steve lowered his arm. He stared hard at the mouth of the bottle in his hand. “Did you know? About Bucky?” 

Peggy took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure, I’d only seen him a few times and I thought-—wishful thinking. But he never recognized me and I…” Taking Steve’s beer from him and gulping the rest down, she muttered something like “ _should’ve known better_ ”. 

“I couldn’t risk my cover—I was so close to Schmidt, to the heart of the thing—I couldn’t just walk out. Do you understand?” She chanced a glance at Steve, face pinched. He wanted to understand, he knew in the grand scheme of things risking one life for a chance of hope for everyone else was too was the right thing to do. While he wasn’t sure he could do it, Peggy could always be depended on. He’d known that determined look, how fragile it could be and he couldn’t condemn her. “After Romanoff told me what she’d seen at the docks, I did some digging. Got her information for logging in under James’ credentials—” 

Steve’s smile flickered to life. “You still refusing to call him Bucky?” 

Peggy fought off a smile of her own as she continued. “I wanted to lay the dead to rest, but when I did the research on my own end, nothing added up; too many holes and redacted files. If he had just died in an accident, none of that would have been there. It wouldn’t be a matter of public record, but they’d still have him as a donor.” 

She went through the steps—being the words on the Natasha’s screen, leaking the times and dates for their missions to disturb Hydra’s attempts. It took years to gain Natasha’s trust, and Natasha to gain hers. She hadn’t told Natasha as much, but she had high-suspicions where the repo man—singular, though Hydra tried to make it sound like they had an army on their side for the public—was bound to be deployed. He never came out of hiding until this last one on the docks. When Peggy looked into it after, she found there were more than bodies and drugs in those crates—there was stored information on drives they were hiding away. Hydra would never send their greatest asset out for anything less. A few other agents working along with Peggy agreed, and together they dug further. It only ignited flame after flame and settled Peggy’s resolve that there was more to the repo man’s story than the rumors, and maybe this was their way into destroying the company. She and Natasha setup the beginning of Hydra’s end.  

Peggy reviewed what she knew: that from the beginning Cynthia was planning on discrediting her father. There could be no ties to the unconsented experimentation, so she killed them, every last one of her father’s little projects. The public couldn’t know that Skull was working with a man who was using a series of drugs to warp the minds of several men and women in order to make them malleable and stronger for the task to come: organ repossession. It was a mess, or would have been, if they’d been allowed to go on. 

When Bucky was the only one who survived, Peggy didn’t call it a mercy that Cynthia didn’t try to kill him again. It might have been intrigue that had him frozen, thawed out and operated on later when she was confident her position was solid. It was nice having her own boogeyman, and with the city under her thumb with chaos contained by fear, she couldn’t be stopped. She had her soldier, kept frozen between hits, tortured by frying his brains into submission. It was all in his handler’s reports, the ones kept only in Cynthia’s desk with no digital footprint. 

At the end of it, all Steve could ask was why now—why Peggy didn’t she get a hold of him sooner.  

“I wasn’t—we weren’t ready.” Her eyes looked heavy, her mouth twisted up on one side in a half-heartedly attempt of a smile. “We needed more time, and I knew if you found out, it would be all guns blazing.” Her voice was soft. “And for that, I’m sorry.”  

He took her hand that was closest to him—skin soft around the knuckles, but her palm wais rough and cut,. He could feel how thick her skin was in some places, like a callus. He pictured Peggy, as he knew her, holding a gun, cleaning it. The vision got away from him. Bucky appeared alongside her, eyes dark and void. Both had spilled blood in Hydra’s name, and both have not wanted to. Both had lost time they would never get back. If anything, Steve should have been the one apologizing.  

“I’d always been a little bit in love with you,” Steve wanted to be brave for her, she’d been brave for so long. “Not a day has gone by where I haven’t thought of you, Pegs.”  

When she kissed him, it was meant to be at the corner of his mouth, he realized after the fact. He’d read her wrong, turning his face ever so slightly to meet her somewhere in the middle. They ended up laughing, just inches away from each other, as Steve turned red for the second time in 24 hours and tried to give her space, releasing her. Her hands cupped his jaw, not allowing an inch between them so she could give him a real kiss this time, the kind he’d thought she wanted in the first place. Her mouth was soft, lips waxy with rouge.  

Peggy said, “I missed you, darling,” before kissing the corner of his mouth again properly. Steve did not consider it not a promise of a future—they knew they couldn’t have it, Steve could feel the shape of a ring on the hand against his cheek. He failed to notice before. 

“Well,” she pulled back, smirking. “That was long overdue, I think.” 

“Someone at Hydra going to be madder at me than they already are?” he asked in the space between them, as Peggy sat back, rolling her eyes at him as she folded her arms. Her finger tapped against her own arm, an old impatient tick. 

“For your information, she’s an actress,” Peggy said. “Don’t insult me, Captain.” 

Steve groaned, covering his eyes with his palm at the sound of his nickname. “I knew you and Nat would be a bad mix.” 

 

* * *

 

“What are we doing, Nat?” Steve confronted her, the moment Peggy left, her own Hydra-issued earpiece coming to life. It was work, and it would be suspicious if she didn’t respond. Gaining leverage in Hydra meant putting up a facade of loyalty—Margaret Carter, in their eyes, always answered their beck and call. Before Steve could mention anything about if they were tracking her, Peggy reassured him there was an order to look for Steve. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if she were out in the field.  

“Might have to be more specific,” Natasha crossed her arms, her stance shifting with her hip out.  

“I need to be there, we can’t just—” 

“All of that,” she interrupted, speaking steadily, “depends on if you can keep a level head this time. What I saw at that school, Rogers? If I hadn’t shown up, Hydra would have killed you or worse.” 

Steve reflected on the “or worse” comment. Now that he knew what Hydra was capable of, more than ever, he saw the dangers he nearly escaped. His knees buckled, but he didn’t fall.  

“They’re using him, Nat, I don’t—”1 

She approached him, careful, keeping her hands in sight. Steve’s eyes were fixated at a low point, unable to look up. Once Natasha makes it into his personal space, he slumped a little. Her voice made him look in his direction. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Natasha asked, soft. “He might not be salvageable.” 

Steve winced at her choice of words, the detachment in them. _Salvageable_ , like a part, not a person to be saved. He couldn’t consider such a thing. He turned away. 

“What’ll you do,” she continued, “if he can’t come back here? If he doesn’t want to?” 

He caught her meaning—if the brainwashing was so deep he’d lost himself, if he believed his cause was the right one. If he was against everything these forgotten people had ever fought and bled for, there would be no place for him here. If he was so turned around he couldn’t remember what it’s like to be Bucky at his core—good and righteous, helping out the little guy—Steve’s heart would break. 

“I’ve got to do right by him.” Steve raised his eyes, his face to meet hers. They held each other's’ expressions—Steve, stern, jaw working itself. Natasha, cool and unsmiling. “It’s what he would have wanted.” 

 

* * *

 

With new resolve, Steve and Natasha pulled together the others to discuss what to do next. Before any goodbyes could take place, right after they’d loaded any and all equipment, Steve was pulled aside by Peggy. 

“You need protection,” she explained, small hand squeezing his arm. Pressure, just enough that Steve understood the gravity of this situation. 

Steve shook his head faintly. “I don’t need a gun.”  

Peggy gave him a trying look. “He and all the rest of Hydra will shoot you first, otherwise.” 

“Well then,” Steve replied, after frowning for a bit, deep in thought. He could tell Peggy didn’t like that look. When they were kids it always led to decisions that later had them worse for wear. “Guess I’ll need something that’ll deflect bullets, huh?” 


	10. Experiment with something living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all!
> 
> School and life got crazy. I had meant to update sooner, but obviously this fic had to take a backseat priority-wise. 
> 
> Now I'm on my first summer break since high school, and plan to edit the next chapter to be posted early next month. Then I'll get started tweaking the sexy sequel.
> 
> Once again, major grateful kisses to the beautiful [Ari](http://stripperanakin.tumblr.com/) for proofing. And also many full-mouth kisses to my supportive girlfriend [Lee](http://capei.tumblr.com/) who reminded me I needed to finish this thing.

It was Sam’s idea to have a distraction.

“They won’t know how to contain their soldier—they’ve never had to before, and now that Romanoff’s seen to Zola—” Images of the the console flickering out at Bucky’s old school went through Steve’s mind. It only then dawned on Steve that Natasha must have used a program to remove Zola from Hydra’s system. Peggy kept talking. “They won’t know how to handle him. Drug dosages—”

_They’re still pumping him full of chemicals, even now._ It’s like a slap. Of course they wouldn’t stop, how could Steve be so stupid? Stupid like a child, naive like when Natasha first found him—

Barton nudged the back of Steve’s knee with his own, bringing him back as Peggy waited for him to focus. She pretended to be unfazed, not impatient at the least. A younger Peggy might have snapped at Steve for not paying attention. It wasn’t easy for her to travel between work and the underground—he only saw her when it was pertinent. Steve caught her eyes before she could avert her worried gaze.

“They don’t know how to work the equipment either. Most of it is automated by Zola—honestly, those scientists down there in the bunker are useless. This is to our advantage.”

Sam cocked his head. “Care to share how, exactly?”

“Reports dictate the soldier becomes increasingly unstable without constant reinforcement. I’m willing to lay money on the fact there’s a healing factor, and he’s—”

“He’s fighting them,” Steve finished flatly. He knew he shouldn’t let himself have it. Bucky healing, Bucky coming back. Whatever they’d taken wasn’t enough: remnants of his old self existed and were returning to the surface. Steve knew he shouldn’t hold his breath hoping.

“It’s a possibility,” Peggy nodded. “Point I’m getting at: we stand a better chance of bringing him in when they’re scrambled on what to do than when they figure out how Zola’s machines work. My associates and I will do our best to keep matters under control, but we can’t blow our covers.”

“You think they’ll up security measures, then?” Peggy confirmed Sam’s inquiry without a doubt. He stepped forward, looking towards Steve. “Sounds like you need to keep someone busy while you snatch your boy.”

“I can’t ask you—” Steve started, but Natasha punched him in the shoulder. Steve scanned the floor. She stood right next to him, as always, as everyone in that cramped tent had before. He never had to ask them to stand with his risky plans before. It’d been offer after offer to help, even when he’d refused time and time again.

Barton cleared his throat unceremoniously. “Now that that’s settled, where exactly am I driving?”

  

* * *

  

The coordinates involved a building with a lot of missing pieces—several Hydra facilities had their building plans laid out if you really looked for them, as Peggy had. But what she was searching exactly was an absence of—a building with floors unaccounted for, perfect as a backup for hiding their soldier where only those with the highest clearance may be aware. Far to the south east of Manhattan, nearly at the edge of the protective dome for New York City, was such a building. The old airport there was too extensive to completely destroy, but instead faced conversion. Steve had never been to an airport before his mother died, and he wondered what it may have looked like in its glory days.

Peggy planned to disappear the moment they went above ground in order to survey their positions before giving the green light to continue. The air was tense, the unspoken question hanging in the air over whether or not Peggy’s situation had been compromised by their little meeting.

“I can hear your brains going a mile a minute,” she interrupted the silence, sitting near the cargo truck’s open flap before slipping out. She scoffed at Sam and Steve. “Do you two really think I’m going to get myself caught?” Steve felt his face go hot and ignored it. Sam blinked. “And even if I did—”

“You’d take care of it, I know,” Steve sighed, wearing a tight smile.

“We’ll hold down our end. You hold down yours,” Peggy said firmly, just before taking off. Sam whistled and went quiet for only a moment more before asking Steve how he kept managing to find these terrifying women. It earned a laugh from Steve.

“Honestly, it seems more like they find me. I’m just along for the ride.” Steve leaned back, staring at the top of the cargo hold. Old habits told him to ignore Sam’s inquiring look as he waited for Steve to talk to him. It could have been exhaustion, it could have been having his world turned upside down that made Steve say, “I owe you an explanation.”

Sam didn’t respond for a beat. Eventually, he agreed. “Yes, you do.”

Steve chanced a glance over. Sam no longer looked at him but instead fixated on the top of the cargo hold as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He must have known it made it easier for Steve to talk. Steve knocked his fist into the hard truck bed they sat on. He was in denial all this time until Zola only a day ago. Before, the voice inside him was on repeat, reassuring that this mission or the repo man on the docks were nothing special. Before, he reasoned with himself how telling Sam would raise an unnecessary red flag, causing a chain reaction of explanation—an entire story spilling from his mouth. _I lost Bucky and didn't want to move on._ It wasn’t something he was ready to share.

“I trust you, Sam,” Steve added, praying to God that Sam believed he’d make things right between them. After Bucky and Natasha, Sam was the only other person he trusted.

“We’re friends, man,” Sam responded, looking over. Steve felt a weight lift when Sam reached across, jostling Steve’s shoulder. Steve smiled, clapping his hand over Sam’s. “But jeez, your luck, Rogers. Can’t hardly believe it.”

 

* * *

 

Barton stayed in the truck upon arrival to the Hydra facility Peggy had suggested to be the best candidate for keeping the soldier. Parked far as they thought safe, Natasha was still able to pick up that there was excess security. She pulled up the building’s maps and stats. Tapping away at her computer, she smiled.

“Ah,” she grinned, features lit up by the screen. “Smart girl you got there, Rogers.”

She turned the laptop to him. If he was reading this right, apparently a message on the boards said someone had called in a tip, claiming one of the major organ plants was going to be under threat by a Steven G. Rogers. They’d more than doubled security.

“Sounds like a bona fide promise they’re bringing in the big guns,” Natasha seemed impressed.

“Sounds like overkill to me,” Steve frowned. She shrugged. If bringing in the big guns meant Bucky, then so be it.

 

* * *

  

They followed the road with faded signs directing past travelers from one terminal from another. They got as far as an abandoned train station before the rest of the road was blocked off with electric fences. Peggy had mentioned if they drove off track and headed towards the north gate, security was usually weaker as Hydra didn’t expect anyone to drive off the road and go around. Otherwise it was a matter of hitting the south of the building right off the road hard and fast, and getting out quick—or take more time to drive around, which would make the getaway less than ideal. Hydra could easily cut them off at the south. Despite this, with only three people in the field, and an additional body staying as the getaway driver, their best chance was the north gate.

“Swear to god, one scratch on my car,” Barton huffed, gripping the wheel as he veered off the road, voice edged with irritation, “and Hydra is really dead.”

The plan was Sam would stay with Steve and Natasha, Barton would go with them to a point to watch for outside security. He passed a few metal disks to Natasha, keeping most of them to himself. Once they were inside, he’d leave and head back to the truck. Maria Hill, one of Peggy’s contacts, had given them all the pass codes they’d need to break in—should they require them.

“All the more reason not to go in guns blazing,” Barton commented.

“He used to be more fun,” Natasha quipped with a small, secret smile. Steve’s finger twitched, touching the cool and untarnished metal making up the shield Peggy gave him.

“Can’t imagine,” Steve said drily, picking the shield up. It’s had a good weight, the leather harness sturdy.

“I’ll tell you about it. Someday,” Natasha said, adjusting her variety of belts with different slots for knives, cartridges and god knows what else became a weapon once it was in her hands. Steve could see she was well stocked for the fight, overcompensating. Perhaps all her gadgets gave her more confidence, even if she didn’t need them. Maybe it was just preparation for the worst. Steve knew what Natasha was capable of with her fists and strength alone. He clutched the shield’s harness in his grip tighter.

_Someday._ Steve tried to picture it and he couldn’t. He avoided picturing what tomorrow could be. He may never see these faces again. In his mind, Bucky was foggy in his vision for the future. If Bucky wasn’t there, what did that mean for him? If anything, he hoped he wouldn’t have to mourn Bucky twice—whatever the cost. It’s the best ending the morning could offer him. Picking up his filtration mask, Steve slipped it over his head and prepared to move.

 

* * *

 

Barton only had to use a few of the EMP disks to short out the cameras monitoring the north gate. For the most part, Natasha was able to knock out the majority of the guards at their posts. Any commotion caused was easily dealt with before the groups at the south gate were alerted.

“He’s probably stationed in the basement—far away from anyone who might be working on the main floors,” Natasha explained, breathless in the comms as she moved ahead before anyone else.

He heard a small yelp off to her side—he hadn’t been able to see her since she climbed the fence. Evenly, she appeared, just on the other side of the wire fence. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin when she startled him.

She smirked in response when she asked, “miss me?”, dangling the guard’s keys in her hands.

“And what’s this business about Rogers here being a terrorist?” Sam asked, looking amused as ever by Steve’s reaction.

“They have to tell the media something when they carry him out in a body bag,” she replied. “Make New York hate you and love Hydra. They caught Steve stumbling in on a big secret, didn’t they?”

Natasha unlocked the gate, creating enough of an opening for them to slip in.

Luckily Hydra hadn’t changed the passwords for the base—at least not yet, or maybe just never were going to at all, smug that no group of underground dwellers could break in and be a real threat.

Natasha, at least, didn’t appear too fazed when it turned out to be a trap. It could have been her training, not to betray her own fear when she felt it. Or it could have been part of the act she maintained where she knew everything, appearing to consistently stay on top of things while watching the other guy sweat. For what it was worth, this gave Steve secondhand confidence. The three of them made it halfway across the first hallway that led to the core of the building before an alarm went off—Hydra agents dropping from the ceiling behind and in front of them.

Sam turned first, shooting them, yelling at Steve and Natasha go on because he had the situation under control. Steve, shield up, charged the operatives ahead of them, knocking them back into each other and tumbling one after another. Making progress to signs that pointed to a security checkpoint, Natasha slid under the low one-way metal bars and opened the door for the next compartment. There was a circular room, remodeled from what once was with new floor tile and white painted walls. It looked almost like a lobby, a mask for all the nameless horrors Steve suspected were just below their feet. The reception desk was empty, the furniture in the middle of the room clean and untouched. Looking at Natasha, he realized the two were out of place—dirty and ragged in a spotless room. Clinical lights shined down on them, making Steve grimace. The whole thing was sterile and plastic like a hospital, not a place of business.

“All the terminals from the old airport were converted into lobbies like this—six other hallways besides this one that will lead to the central room Hydra installed a few years ago. I think that’s where we want to go,” Natasha planned aloud, crouched low and waiting for the doors to open at any minute.

The room remained still and silent. That was right, Steve recalled—this facility’s layout reminded him of an octopus, and here they were moving towards its head. Only a matter of time until more guards came their way.

“You know he’s probably waiting in the heart of it, Steve.”

“We should get going then,” Steve gestured to the door ahead of them, taking note of the room of chrome elevators. Company could arrive any moment.

Natasha, not quite satisfied, seemed unwilling to move. Steve changed the course of his gaze slightly, eyes flickering to the door labelled “stairs”, thinking they might be a safer option, less to go wrong mechanically. Hydra could stop the elevator and corner them. He felt antsy to get out of the room, the sensation growing to a peak when Natasha barked something sharp and in Russian. Following her gaze, Steve caught the camera before it short circuited—her arm quickly flinging an EMP to fry it.

The elevator opened with a ding announcing its arrival. Both twisting in its direction, Steve was confronted again by the boogeyman, not the army he’d been expecting.

Bucky’s hair was over his eyes, stringy and ill-kept. He looked clammy in this lighting, his head lowered. Hydra did not bother to mask him this time. The shadows under his eyes were deeply etched into the hollows of his sockets.

 Bucky’s never looked more dead in all his life. _He’s a ghost_ , Steve thought. Bucky looked so damn unhealthy, like Steve did at his very worst. Steve hadn’t had a corpse to say goodbye to, after all. He wanted to rip the breathing apparatus off his face, make sure there was no mistaking that Bucky could see him, hear him.

His name left Steve’s lips, a broken and raspy-sounding word.

Like hitting an on-switch, Bucky lifted his head. With every step forward he approached Steve, fists balled up for a swing that Steve blocked with his shield. Just his left hand, Steve registered the metallic clang as Bucky swiped near his exposed abdomen with a blade that nearly connected. And might have, if Natasha hadn’t kicked Bucky in the side and knocked him nearly to the floor.

If Natasha moved with grace and skill, then Bucky moved with something made of the same stuff. That level of calculation, of each move being full of purpose and ingrained in muscle fibers, was there, but Bucky’s body barely contained it. There was a quiet rage under his skin. Steve could see it. He could imagine barbaric seams pulling at the staples keeping flesh together. It made him brutal and strong, and with just enough recklessness that Natasha could see where and how to slip between the cracks of his defense and strike. It was the attempt to twist back his left arm that left Natasha momentarily stunned, and gave Bucky an opportunity to slam that fist so hard up into her stomach she gagged. Whatever it was Natasha was expecting, she couldn’t compensate with the unforgiving metal that was Bucky’s left arm now. She was no match for it.

Steve charged at him then, wanting to knock him off his feet at least, maybe reason with Bucky—the entire time, a heavy mantra of _his arm, his left arm, it’s_ —but Bucky took control of his own balance quickly, tripping Steve’s legs up. Wedging a hand between his shoulder blades, Bucky shoved with his left hand that had no give to it. It knocked the wind out of Steve as his body pounded into the floor, chest taking the initial impact. His lungs stuttered. Sweeping by him, Bucky’s arm grabbed the straps around Steve’s shoulders that made up his shield harness. There was a whirring by Steve’s ear, but before he could shift his focus, he was being thrown into the elevator. He braced himself on the metal bar, arm hooking around it and ready to act, knees bent in potential and defiance in his expression.

“Rogers!” Natasha threw his shield down low, right between Bucky’s legs.

The last he saw her, before the doors closed, she still wrapped her arm protectively around her stomach. In the corner of her mouth, there was blood and Steve was enraged, trying to regain control of his anger when he looked up and saw Bucky crowding him in the elevator. He was still and glaring down, blocking his way as if Steve had the option of escaping. Unaware that Steve couldn’t leave him in any sense of the word. The button for three floors down was lit—only two away from the unmarked basement, if he recalled the schematics properly—and Steve’s eyes went to Bucky’s shadowed face. Lines formed by his clenched jaw, brows creased, his deep frown—like he was thinking and not quite sure what to say yet as he watched Steve, whose shield raised briefly.

Moving his arm back to latch the shield onto his harness, Steve kept one hand raised.

“Buck—” he started, but the spell was broken. He wasn’t there anymore, the light in his eyes gone. The elevator’s doors parted behind Bucky, guns trained on them—more specifically, Bucky. With his back to the door, a pose familiar to Steve of Bucky always guarding him from harm—taking the brunt of any force coming their way.

_The soldier is protecting the target_ , he read their lips. _He’s compromised._ Bucky’s face was blank, thrown through a loop or a memory. It didn’t matter. Steve got to his feet, pushing Bucky aside fast enough to slash at the controls of the elevator, making it spark. The carriage dropped.

The fall is what brought Bucky back. It’s the sudden gasp Steve heard, and then Steve caught onto it, what falling in an elevator meant to Bucky.

“Buck—” he pled, but all it earned him was pain blossoming from the side of his face and an animalistic scream.

Steve was slammed against the side of the metal cage, unbalanced as he was vaguely aware they were still falling, might be flattened to their deaths unless the brakes kick in. Moments later, they do jolt to a stop, but Bucky was on him—Steve too preoccupied to be grateful. Reflexively he wedged a knee between them, prying Bucky off enough for Steve to regain his ground. The small space didn’t warrant much, but being kicked into the wall caused an alertness in Bucky, one Steve had last seen on the docks. As if the impact did a reset, putting Bucky back on his mission with deadly focus. He made no noise, approaching Steve, crouched low and circling. That’s when Steve started to suspect something—before, there had been knives. There had to be, for a repossession—how else was the  repo man supposed to reclaim Hydra’s property without a means to remove it from their victim?—but his perimeters had changed for this last mission. Hydra’s repo man was unarmed.

_To what?_ It was Natasha’s voice in his head asking.

Seconds before Bucky lunged at him, Steve had maneuvered himself at the door—they couldn’t be here, pent up like animals—frantic like they’re clawing for air. He deflected Bucky with his shield he’d unharnessed—a direct hit to Bucky’s head that deterred him for a second before he tried again, Bucky’s mind set on only one objective. Catching the side of his throat with the hard edge of his shield as Steve turned and swung out at him, it was enough to make Bucky gasp. Steve ached watching Bucky crumble down to the floor. Steve tried prying the elevator open, only to realize they were caught between the basement and the foundation of the floor above.

He pressed his ear piece, checking to see if anyone could read him. There was static, and just as he was about to give up, he swore he heard Barton’s voice.

“Barton,” he said, never more grateful to hear him than this moment. “Barton, do you copy?”

It was broken, but the snark in his “about damn time” and the sound of unmistakable relief left Steve oddly touched.

“We’re stuck,” Steve held onto his shield and tried to squeeze into the narrow elevator opening. He latched it soon after standing, still getting used to his shield and knowing Peggy would kill him if he lost it so soon.

The basement, unfurnished and unfinished, featured a single console and display. The lights were low hanging bulbs, and something shook above their heads. Dirt sprinkled Steve’s hair. Dusting himself off, he walked to the main computer. Steve had learned to expect the worst and wasn’t disappointed when faced with the computer monitor.

“Do you read?” Steve pressed the communication device into his ear again, desperate. “Anyone, Natasha? Something—”

_They’re going to blow us up,_ was the only thought in his head as Steve watched the electric numbers start to count down. Only minutes were left.

“Get out! Natasha, Sam…! —Barton!” he shouted, rounding to get back to the elevator. There had to be something they could do—he had to believe Peggy, Natasha—someone knew about the bomb, could get them out. Another thing he was left in the dark about, and sure, he’d give them hell later, but he had to—

Steve lost his footing, a low swing at his legs he hadn’t expected making him fall on his back, shield grinding into his hip and shoulders. To his shame, he yelped when it happened. There was a crack of his sternum when Bucky’s boot landed in the center of his chest. He couldn’t breathe, he coughed, and Steve expected another blow but sees only a face, concerned the way he hated to remember. Bucky hovering over him, worried. He was here now.

“We have to leave, Buck,” he tried, ripping the oxygen mask off his face. No more barriers between them. “The others—” The pressure of Bucky’s foot was gone, replaced by the sensation of his heel digging into Steve’s ribs, making Steve curl in on himself. His eyes watered; Bucky had never had the propensity to be cruel like this before. “Hydra left you to die, Hydra—”

“Shut up!” Bucky screamed, hauling Steve up with his left arm that wasn’t flesh and bone anymore, not with the way it grinded underneath the dark leather physician’s coat. Bucky yanked him up, just to hit him hard again. Something crunched and collapsed in Steve’s cheek, who wondered vaguely if something might be broken.

“They took our mothers, they made us sick—they made me—” he gasped, “I hurt you, Buck. I hurt you worst of all.” It was clear the violence was only making more violence. If there was a time for Steve to stop hurting Bucky, it was now.

He tried to raise his hands to grasp Bucky’s face. Fear took hold of Bucky instead, and maybe it was the concussion. Maybe it was shock or he was bleeding in his brain, but Steve was overwhelmed by the years of loving this man, of sometimes missing a step and nearly hating him, but always being dragged back.

“I want to do right by you, by this,” Steve croaked out, collapsing down to his knees when Bucky dropped him like he was some offensive thing. “You used to—do you remember? Bucky.” He wanted it so bad, Steve could cry. “You always tried, and I’m going to keep trying for the same reasons you did for all those years.”

Bucky hit him harder that time, swatting him down. With a mouthful of blood, Steve took what Bucky gave. Knuckles and bones, unsure of how much was Bucky’s anymore. Both gloved, body clad in leather, nowadays it was hard to tell the price of being alive.

_Oh god,_ Steve remembered. Oh god he’d loved those hands. No matter what they would do. At that moment they pinned Steve down, hips straddling him. Hits connecting, one after another until the lights started to dim in Steve’s head. Bucky’s face appeared in his vanishing line of vision, appearing horrified over Steve’s body below him once he’d seen what those hands can do, and no one, Steve vaguely thought as his right eye swelled and shut, should ever have that sort of power over another person. He’d done so much to Bucky, not all of it good, he knew. But that horror on Bucky’s dirty face would be seared behind his eyelids. Compressed into deutanic pixels, like in his old nightmare. A live broadcast. Bucky was there, Steve unable to hear him. Bucky could have been screaming. He could have been asking for help. Meanwhile, Steve was miles away.

We didn't know about the bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left!! I can't BELIEVE IT!!


	11. A world of promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT, LAST CHAPTER
> 
> I expected to post this sooner, but life and work happened, of course!! I still have a sequel in the works. I hope to finish it this summer before heading back to school.
> 
> Once more, I'd love to thank all my pals who helped me along the way. There's [Jannet](http://what-a-bird-does.tumblr.com/) for dealing with my grump, and [Ari](http://stripperbucky.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing beta. Thanks guys, and thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this little love child of mine. <3

Upon waking, the first thing Steve noticed was he was in his old bed in Jersey.

It was home. It felt strange to apply the word to Jersey, but he recognized the creak of the floorboards as the person outside of the room paced. Bucky never used to realize what he was doing, but Steve could hear him, couldn’t get the sound out of his head. It always made him grit his teeth. _He’s worrying,_ Steve used to think to himself, and then: _he’s going to worry himself to an early grave._

The second thing Steve realized was, when he tried to sit up, his entire chest lit up in pain and protested. Steve collapsed back down onto the mattress.

“I can hear you, Sam,” he called out, the steps too weighted to be Natasha’s. His throat was raw. His jaw hurt, popping softly as Steve tried adjusting to the sensation. He rubbed his face, finding it sore and swollen in around his right eye and cheekbone. There was the rough texture of stitches under his hand.

The heavy pacing outside his door stopped, the steps moving farther and farther away. A lighter, quicker pair suddenly got closer, racing up the stairs before bursting into the room.

“Natasha,” he breathed, and then paused, trying to perch up enough to look into the hallway. The questions he wanted to ask must have been blatant on his face because she spared him a nod. All the air in Steve’s lungs escaped. It wasn’t Sam. Bucky was here.

“He pulled you out, after the explosion. Surrendered before I even got the chance for a rematch,” Natasha folded her arms across her chest, looking into Steve’s good eye. “We didn’t know about the bomb, no one did. Not even Peggy. She expects her cover’s been blown, but she’s out.” Before Steve could open his mouth, she continued. “She’s safe—girl’s got friends in high places, apparently. Done pretty well for herself, have to say.”

Natasha stood there, steadily delivering information like a report. How the explosion was mainly contained to the bottom levels, how the building started to crash down into its foundation, but at that point, Sam and Nat had started running, and Barton was even generous enough as to drive through the fence to meet them halfway. “A perfect gentleman” was the descriptor used.

“We’re fine—but they cleared us out underground, after our little stint,” Natasha’s lips lifted up, showing teeth. “Guess it was time to stop playing games and exterminate the rats.” Papers were painting Steve as a terrorist still, claiming he’d been killed in the explosion, the community made safe once more. Favor towards Cynthia Smith was higher than it had been in recent years.

“How does it feel,” she mused, “to die for your country?”

Steve groaned when he finally manages to sit properly, attempting to be less conspicuous with how his eyes were drawn to the door, like he expected Bucky to come back at any moment.

“Something else worth mentioning: one of Peggy’s friends. Apparently he’s got the brains to back up all his talk. He thinks he can save the day.” If Natasha noticed Steve’s distraction, she didn’t comment. “Ever heard of Stark Industries?”

Steve rubbed at his jaw absently. “Can’t say I have.”

“That’s because you don’t pay attention,” she smirked. “Manufactures weapons, also has his fingers in a couple different pies, too. Bioengineering being one of them.”

Steve frowned. “Let me guess—old Serum client of yours?”

“You know I don’t give out secrets, Rogers.”

“Yeah, you just collect them.”

She smiled, without a trace of pride or glee in the fact. “Must mean I look trustworthy.”

“That, or something else,” Steve rolled his eyes. He found with the subtle pounding in his head even that motion was uncomfortable, like a threat to strain something behind his eyes.

“Anyway,” she digressed, “Stark happens to have some weight in the entertainment business. He’s a talented hacker, too. Better than the best—present company excluded. He found out about Hydra in the beginning, after his heart started to go bad and they contacted him. Claims he found alternatives, and that if Hydra falls, he’ll help pick up the pieces.”

“How’d he find us?”

“By not ignoring we exist.” Her humor, always touched with bitterness, disappeared. “He contacted Carter first, helped her get an in. From there, she’s recruited from the inside. After everything we’ve learned recently, he thinks it’s time to blow the top off this whole thing.”

“Only now?” Steve huffed a laugh, looking grim. Natasha shrugged as if to say _better late than never_.

“You trust him?” Steve asked, catching Natasha’s eye.

“Peggy does,” she said simply. “What more could you need?”

“Your opinion,” Steve replied, too honest. He could tell by the look of surprise on Natasha’s face, how her eyes widened when his answer momentarily threw her through a loop. Her laugh was nervous.

“Not sick of me yet?” He liked this smile she gave him. It suited Natasha’s heart-shaped face, reducing the hard scorn he usually found traces of there.

“You’d be the first to know.” Natasha seemed to debate between getting closer before her hesitation won. She touched the end of the bed post at the foot of Steve’s bed instead, a compromise.

“I don’t think Stark is a leader,” Natasha said, fingernails scraping against the texture of the wooden bedpost. They both watched as her nails traced the changes in the wood’s grain. “I’m willing to bet Carter agrees with me, and we could both come to a consensus on who’s best for the job. Someone to keep us all in line.”

Steve heard his pulse in his ear, loud and strong. His arms were cold all over.

“I’m not—” he began, but he did not get a chance to finish.

“Neither of us are,” she scoffed. “I sold black market painkillers, I was a grave robber when you met me and before that… I had no place in this world.” Steve waited patiently for an explanation, but Natasha was already moving past it. He wondered if it was a slip up, if she hadn’t meant to. “The point is, neither of us are qualified but you’re the first person I’d met who wanted to mourn a pit of leftover materials when I’d stopped seeing them as people a long time ago. You’re a good man, Rogers. The world doesn’t deserve you.”

It’s just a chance, Steve understood. He saw the opportunity to do what he’d always wanted: break the circle of reduce, reuse, recycle. Steve closed his tired eyes. His head was pounding, his face ached, he wanted to face this later, but he knew he’d never be ready..

“I’ll think about it,” is all he said. Steve leaned back down against the pillow. It smelled stale to him—out in the middle of nowhere, the house was constantly plagued with that damp, old scent. Bucky blamed the age of the house, and the story they told themselves was that one day, when things calmed down and Bucky was better established at Hydra, they could move out of this dump. His old room, dusty and untouched, had no evidence of personal touches that would suggest this was Steve’s room. He wondered how any of them knew where to put him, or if this was just chance. The house, with more rooms than they’d ever needed, and he just so happened to get placed in this one. Natasha only knew what it looked like from the outside, all those years ago.

“He remembers?” Steve asked, softly, looking into the empty hallway again.

“He won’t talk to me,” Natasha answered. “He doesn’t talk to any of us. Except for Sam. He managed to get a few words of out him.”

Steve furrowed his brow before asking, “What did he say?”

“Look,” she sighed, and the lack of sleep started to bleed through for her, too. He doubted Natasha had slept within the last couple days. “From what Sam can tell, Barnes has a long road ahead of him.”

“I don’t care,” Steve sputtered, the feeling seizing his chest—hopefully that, and not something else. _Until the end_ , he thought, Steve was going to be with him until the end of all things. Until they were all long gone and pages in a book. Whether the pages painted them as heroes of a new age, or villains of their current one—all that mattered was they’re gone, he was gone with Bucky and no historian could change a damn thing.

“I know,” Natasha stayed calm. “From what Sam shared, apparently Barnes suspected something was screwy with Hydra in the beginning, but by the time he realized it, it was too late to get out.”

It was another bomb. The high-pitched buzz he used to get when he first put on hearing aids every morning resounded through his skull at that moment, making him dizzy.

“Steve, I might have been wrong.” The last time Steve heard that, he hadn’t liked what came after—all that time ago at the docks. _Steve, I may have—miscalculated._

“All those years, and I might have been wrong. Or maybe I’m right, who knows. I’m tired.” She finally sat down on the bed—still in her dark tact gear, knives and all. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. It looked dulled from all the dusk. Steve couldn’t imagine she’d had the time to clean up since the Hydra base.

“I want to believe that you were right.” She gazed out his window, frowning. Deep lines of concentration. “Defect or not, mutation... whatever. It saved you, Steve.”

_No, it was Bucky who_ —but his mind worked before Steve could open his mouth. He realized her meaning, his lips parting in a soft “oh” because yes—it was Bucky, and yes, it was also love that saved Steve. Her words all that time ago warned him that love was a defect, that nature was imperfect, but in the end, it could also be the key to everyone’s survival.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Bucky was back up on the roof. Steve followed, hand pressed against his own ribs, trying not to wince as he sat down. He felt the texture, the scrape of the roof’s tiles against his palms, allowing it to ground him. Bucky had removed the leather physician jacket, wearing just jeans and a borrowed henley. This was an old scene revisited. They watched for something unknown in the horizon, thick tension between them, but there was a promise. They’d get better then as they had before in the past.

A moment passed before Bucky stood, refusing to meet Steve’s eyes, but unable to move away as Steve made a grab at his hand. Bucky jerked his arm away, but didn’t try to leave again.

“I’m just going to keep following you,” he reminded Bucky, stretching out his legs with a grunt. “Doesn’t matter to me if you want to be difficult about it.”

Bucky huffed, a mild and irritated sound before he pushed his long hair back, fingers threading into it. He gave Steve a look of disbelief, so quick Steve almost didn’t catch it as Bucky’s eyes darted away. It’s probably a concussion, but Steve swore one eye was the exact shade he remembered. Steel, while the other was a shade darker, brown—nearly black. It must have been new.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Bucky finally spoke, voice scratchy. Steve blinked, then laughed. Judging by Bucky’s expression boring down on him, he didn’t catch the hilarity of the situation. Almost everything had changed, it struck Steve, but here they were in Jersey. Bucky, faithful old Bucky, hadn’t missed a beat when it came to fussing over Steve Rogers. _Rule 1: keep him off of tall buildings. He’s bound to break his neck._

“Aw hell,” Steve wiped the tears away, sitting up a little straighter, expectant. It took a few minutes, but Bucky finally resumed his seat besides him, albeit further than before.

His question of “what are you going to do now?” surprised Steve.

“I don’t know,” Steve answered honestly. “Keep fighting? Natasha thinks—” Steve shook his head, the motion making the edges of his vision starry, the whole concept itself enough to make his head spin. Later, he noted, he could worry about this later. Next to him, Bucky was still. Steve swallowed. “What are you—?”

“I’m not—”” Bucky warned suddenly. “You think I look the same, but I’ve changed.”

“Buck,” Steve’s turned to touch him, hand hovering over his shoulder before Steve thought fuck it, and closed the distance. Bucky wavered before tensing, and Steve let him go. He took to repeating Bucky’s name, desperate to bring him back to focus with a _Buck, Buck look at me_ , Steve could see the resistance in his shoulders, and even when that went away, Bucky resisted turning in Steve’s direction. Steve’s chest hurt. He tried his best not to let it ooze out of his skin, overwhelm the man next to him.

“Hey,” he breathed, when Bucky eventually gave in and looked back. He stared, wary like a trapped animal. Eyes watery, expression unsure like he couldn’t understand Steve for wanting this. Steve could scoff—all those aborted times when he refused to allow Bucky to come out with how he felt stemmed from the fact Steve couldn’t understand why anyone wanted him. God, he was stupid then. He prayed Bucky would be wiser. “Will you give me a chance to prove you wrong?”

Bucky sucked in air, sitting back a little straighter. Steve didn’t realize he was smiling until Bucky leaned in closer, Steve’s expression falling. Bucky replied with a stiff: “I’m not wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve stated. “What you’ve done. It doesn’t matter to me because I’d take you any way.”

“That’s—” Bucky spoke slowly, like he’d lost control of the muscles in his mouth. “You don’t want this, you can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m not well,” he swallowed. A bitter smile grew, stretching the corner of his mouth. “And I’m only gonna break your heart.” Metal fingers pressed to the left mound of his own chest, and Steve wondered what was beneath the fabric, underneath Bucky’s his skin. How much Bucky hurt, if he ached and how Steve could make him feel better. Steve wanted to run his hands under, canvas him with his palms and memorize the map of scars, figure out how deep they run.

As if he could sense Steve’s train of thought, Bucky curled in on himself, protecting his stomach, gripping his own chest, spine curved in textbook mourning. The movement pulled Bucky further from Steve’s touch.

 “‘s not my heart,” he gasped as Steve slid closer. The air between them was charged and uncomfortable, each of Bucky’s breaths coming in as a rasp as he suffered and Steve was left not knowing what to do to convince him there was a future for them yet. The space between their lips was boundless, but as Steve’s eyes landed and found Bucky again and again and again, right in fucking front of him for the first time in so many years, the distance between them didn’t feel too great at all. It was almost not enough, actually—too intimate.

As his hand lifted unconsciously, Bucky’s eyes ripped from looking elsewhere, anywhere but at Steve, and focused intensely on Steve’s fingers. Steve swallowed, briefly questioning what his hand had planned exactly and why it didn’t think to consult Steve about any of this before deciding to inch toward Bucky.

He tried touching his shoulder again, watching Bucky’s face for any sudden changes, any reasons to pull away, but Bucky closed his eyes, opened his mouth only to slam it shut, biting his bottom lip painfully like he was trying to bolt something down. His shoulders were bunched up, and Steve saw the muscle rippling underneath the thin sweater. Without all the kevlar and leather, Bucky was smaller. Was he pieced together like Steve recalled? He knew Bucky couldn’t be. They were just boys when they were separated, slim and young. What five years didn’t change, nature would. The accident would. What Hydra did to him would.

The moment his fingertips breached Bucky’s space, he could register the burning, feverish heat radiating off his friend and slid his hand lower, pressed snugly below Bucky’s clavicle. Bucky turned away, hair falling into his face and into his eyes. Shame, Steve registered, and understood yet didn’t. Because Bucky didn’t ask for this. Bucky did nothing wrong and Steve wasn’t sure of how to say as much. Steve could only try to swallow the thick lump in his throat.

Bucky’s chest rose. Breath after breath, and soon, they evened out under Steve’s palm. Eyes closed and dark lashes fanning out over Bucky’s gaunt cheeks, Steve tried to count them. He never could before because catching moments where Bucky actually slept were so rare when he was Steve’s only caretaker. After a while, Steve gave up with a sigh and just beamed instead. There was time for these things later, right?

Steve wasn’t sure where they stood anymore, but if Bucky would have him, Steve knew where his place would be. Future be damned. And if all that was left of Bucky Barnes was skin and a fried brain, that was fine, it wasn’t settling, never could be because living in a world he thought kept going without Bucky? That was settling.

And because Steve wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure what had changed and what hadn’t, he kept his trap shut, didn’t tell Bucky that of course _it’s not your heart is your chest, you stupid jerk_. He didn’t say the one pumping blood in Steve’s chest belonged to Bucky—not literally, of course. Even if part of him longed to hear Bucky tease him like everything was back to normal, to tell Steve off for using such a cheesy line—despite how Steve meant it. It was simple: Steve’s heart had always belonged to Bucky, and his in return had always belonged to Steve.

It seemed as good an opportunity as any for Bucky to look up, to cup Steve’s jaw and hold him there like he meant to make an imprint in his gray matter. Take him in and make Steve a permanent part of him. It’s not an invitation for a kiss, Steve wasn’t going to make that mistake again, but goddammit if he wanted to, if he hadn’t fantasized all this before. The pupil in Bucky’s left eye expanded, only a thin layer of silver left as his eye became darker. His other eye, the brown one, eerily did not change. Bucky’s breath was hot on his cheek.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky started and didn’t say anything else so Steve nodded, confirming yes he’s right here, he’s still Steve. Color-blind to hell. Half-deaf as ever, but Bucky’s eyes crinkled at this, and Steve wondered if he said the wrong thing. “Look at you.”

“Alright alright,” Steve tried twisting out of his grip, embarrassed at the praise and attention. Heat spreading down his face down his neck and across his chest and settling in his belly. “We’ve got work to do.”

“I’ll say,” Bucky let him go, softly muttering, “ _think we got a real piece of work right here_.” Steve managed to get up, ignoring the abortive hand to steady him. Steve, in an additional action to prove he’s more than fine, thank you very much, offered Bucky a hand up. A curious expression on his face, Bucky took Steve up on his offer, cool metal palm around his.

“Hydra had something they didn’t want us to see,” Steve cracked his knuckles. With Bucky, Natasha, Barton, Sam and Peggy on his side, he was ready to face more years of fighting, whatever lay ahead. “How do you feel about sharing this with the rest of the world?”

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you guys think! Encouragement and respectful suggestions are always welcomed!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/) here.


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